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Frontispiece. 





DRIFTED ASHORE 


OR, 


A CHILD WITHOUT A NAME 


BY 


EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN 

m 


AUTHOR OF “LENORE ANNANDALE,” “THE MISTRESS OF LYDGATE,” “HER 
HUSBAND’S HOME,” ETC. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BT CHARLES WHTMPER 


BOSTON: 

BRADLEY & WOODRUFF 














Dt 




4 
































CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 


The Fisherman’s Hut 7 

CHAPTER II. 

The Squire’s Hall 21 

CHAPTER III. 

A Little Intruder 34 

CHAPTER IV. 

Queenie’s Home 48 

CHAPTER V. 

Sunday 63 

CHAPTER VI. 

The First Interview 78 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Fugitive 90 


IV. 


CONTENTS. 




CHAPTER VIII. 
Bertie and Phil 

CHAPTER IX. 

Queenie’s Ideas 

CHAPTER X. 

Bertie’s New Friends 


Uncle Fred 


A Project 


CHAPTER XI. 


CHAPTER XII. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A Picnic 


CHAPTER XIV. 
Autumn Days ..... 

CHAPTER XV. 
The Grave in the Churchyard . 


What Bertie Did 


Chistmas-tide 


CHAPTER XVI. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 


PAGE 

107 


130 


144 

159 


171 


184 


I98 


212 


225 


239 


The Squire’s Story 


2 53 


CONTENTS. 


V. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

PAGE 

Coming Changes 264 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Rocky Bay 277 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The Mother 291 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Name Found 307 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Conclusion 323 










* 










* 







CHAPTER I. 


THE FISHERMAN’S HUT. 



r HE fitful light of a showery April day 
was shining upon the level expanse of 
pale yellow sand, and upon the heaving 
plain of the sullen, angry sea. Great 
waves came racing in upon the beach, as though 
nothing would stay their impetuous course ; and yet, 
as they approached that invisible limit against which 
was traced in unseen characters “Thus far and no 
farther,” their proud crests fell with a grand crash, 
and with a sullen and subdued sound, as of resent- 
ment and wrath, they drew back again into the seeth- 
ing waste of water they had for the moment seemed 
to leave behind. 

When the dark clouds, heavy with rain, drifted 


8 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


over the sun’s pale disc and blotted out his watery 
smile, the face of the ocean looked very grim and 
black; but when the driving shower had passed, and 
the sunlight shone out clear and bright, turning to 
powdered gold dust the last of the retreating rain- 
drops, then it seemed as if the great waves were 
laughing and rejoicing in their play; and even the 
dreary wastes of sand looked bright and almost beau- 
tiful, and the level country beyond, bare and bleak, 
and in many places almost treeless, put on an aspect 
of quiet, smiling contentment that might almost be 
taken for beauty. 

A little boy had been sitting for many hours be- 
neath the shelter of an old boat drawn up upon the 
shore. He was protected from the driving showers, 
and seemed quite contented with his position, for it 
was long since he had moved. He sat very still, 
nursing his knees with his clasped hands and resting 
his chin upon them, whilst he gazed unweariedly out 
over the tossing sea. 

His coarse clothing and sun-browned face and 
hands proclaimed him a fisherman’s son. He looked 
about ten or twelve years old, and had a gentle, 
thoughtful, although not an intellectual cast of coun- 
tenance. He did not appear very robust, despite his 


















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THE FISHERMAN’S HUT. 


9 


indifference to raindrops and chilly sea-breezes, and 
his placid inactivity betrayed a nature more prone to 
contemplation than to the toils of the life to which 
he was evidently born. 

The sun began to set behind the sandhills, whose 
shadows slowly lengthened, whilst the thin, coarse 
grass which grew sparsely upon them turned golden 
in the radiance of departing day. The hoarse cries 
of the seabirds grew more frequent as they flew 
hither and thither, as if in search of their night’s 
quarters ; and the little boy, rousing himself at last 
from his reverie, rose slowly from his sitting posture, 
stretched his cramped limbs, and began slowly mak- 
ing his way in a diagonal direction across the sand- 
hills. 

He had not proceeded far, before a wreath of pale 
blue smoke curling up from a little hollow indicated 
the presence of some dwelling-place; and a few 
more steps brought him to the door of a tiny cabin 
such as fisher-folk often inhabit. 

The door stood seawards, and was as usual wide 
open, and upon the threshold sat the boy’s mother, 
busily engaged in mending a broken net. 

She looked up as the child approached, and 
smiled. She had a round, motherly face, and her 


10 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


person, as well as the interior of her diminutive 
abode, was far more clean and neat than is usual 
with the dwellings of people of her class. 

“Well, David,” she said, “where hast thou been 
all the day, honey?” 

“Oh, down by the sea, mother,” he answered; 
and then, glancing quickly up into her face, he 
asked, “Be he woke up yet?” 

The woman shook her head. 

“Nay, nay, that he has not,” she answered. 
“ Sometimes I be afeared he’ll never wake no more, 
for all the doctor says he will.” 

A look of distress clouded David’s face. 

“Oh, mother, don’t say that! He’s sure to wake 
up soon — the doctor must know best. May I go 
and look at un?” 

“Ay, do so, child, if thee wants.” 

And David stepped over his mother’s net and went 
into the inner room of the little low-roofed cabin. 

Upon a low pallet-bed, beneath the little west win- 
dow, through which the sun was now pouring a flood 
of golden light, lay a child about eight years old, a 
little boy, with dark soft hair lying in heavy waves 
across his forehead, and his white face very set and 
still, more as if in unconsciousness than in sleep. A 


THE FISHERMAN’S HUT. 


I I 

glance at the delicate features of the child upon the 
bed, the blue veins showing through the transparent 
skin, the short upper lip, broad, intellectual brow, 
and small, well-shaped hands, showed plainly enough 
that he was no relation to the little brown-faced fisher 
lad who stood beside him, looking down at him with 
such interest. 

What then had brought him to that humble abode? 
Who was he ? and how came it that he lay there so 
still and motionless, untended save by the hard 
though motherly hands of the fisherman’s wife? 
Where were the boy’s own friends and kindred, who 
would be the most eager to be with him at such a 
time as this? Where was the mother, who would be 
first to fly to her darling, could she but see him lying 
there, on that hard pallet-bed, with no luxuries around 
him, and only strangers to minister to his need? 

Where indeed? That was a question that entered 
many minds ; but none gave voice to it, for all knew 
how vainly it would be asked. The little white-faced 
boy had been cast up by the stormy sea at the good 
fisherwife’s feet three days ago now, but not a single 
clue could be found by which to identify the child, 
or even the vessel from which he had been swept. 
Probably he was the only survivor of some ill-fated 


12 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


ship ; probably he had been washed ashore alive 
only because a life-belt had been tied about him and 
had floated him to shore. Not a single plank or 
fragment of wreckage had been cast ashore with the 
little waif ; and, unless he awoke to give an account 
of himself, it seemed likely that he too would have 
to lie in a nameless grave, as his companions now 
did beneath the waves of the pitiless ocean. 

The doctor of the nearest village, who had been 
every day to see the boy, was still of the opinion 
that he would awake to consciousness in time. He 
detected traces of a heavy blow upon the head, that 
was evidently the cause of this prolonged uncon- 
sciousness, some concussion of the brain having 
probably taken place; but consciousness would 
return in time, and then they would be able to 
learn who the child was, and communicate with his 
friends. 

Meantime, as the fisherwife’s “goodman” and big 
boys were out on a fishing excursion, there was room 
in the cabin for the little waif, and the dame’s moth- 
erly heart was filled with compassion for him, and 
prompted her to “do for him” as if he had been a 
child of her own. 

Little David had taken from the first an immense 


THE FISHERMAN’S HUT. 


13 


interest in the nameless stranger. He thought he 
had never in his life seen any face half so beautiful 
as that of the white-faced child who lay motionless 
upon the bed, and he wove round him the web of 
romance that always seems so dear to children, 
especially when they are of an imaginative turn. 
He believed that he would prove to be at the very 
least a prince, although what a prince was David had 
only the vaguest of ideas. 

He was never tired of standing beside the bed and 
looking at the white face upon the pillow, of watching 
his mother feed the unconscious child, and observing 
the face and movements of the doctor as he made his 
daily. examination. He would have been pleased to 
stay all day in the quiet room, did not his mother 
insist on his going out for some hours every day ; 
but the moment he felt at liberty to return he did so, 
and his first question was always the same— Had the 
little boy awoke yet? 

And now, as he stood gazing down upon the little 
white face, suddenly his heart began to beat more 
quickly and his breath came thick and fast, for he 
saw that the long black lashes resting upon the waxen 
cheek were beginning to tremble and to slowly lift 
themselves up ; and the next moment a pair of large, 


4 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


dark, soft eyes were looking straight into his. There 
was no meaning in that gaze, no surprise or inquiry. 
It was like the expression in the eyes of a little child 
just awakened from sleep, before any consciousness 
of its surroundings has dawned upon it; but David 
uttered a smothered cry that brought his mother 
hurrying up. 

The great dark eyes turned upon her then, and she 
laid her hand upon David’s shoulder. 

“ Run for the doctor, quick, Davie boy !” she cried 
in an excited whisper. “ Don’t thee linger by the 
way now. Fetch him as fast as thee can.” 

No need to tell David not to linger. He was off 
like a shot almost before the words were spoken. 

Fortune favored him that day. The doctor, whose 
experienced eye had that morning detected an ap- 
proaching change in his little patient’s state, had 
already set out upon a second visit to the fisherman’s 
cottage, and David encountered him about a quarter 
of a mile away from his home. 

The boy imparted his news with breathless eager- 
ness. The doctor quickened his pace, and in a very 
few minutes he was standing beside the pallet-bed. 

The sick child had turned his face away from the 
light and had closed his eyes again ; but when the 


THE FISHERMAN’S HUT. 


15 


doctor laid a cool, firm hand upon his head, he 
started a little, and the dark eyes unclosed once 
more and fastened upon the doctor’s face. 

“Well, my little friend, and how are you?” was 
the kindly inquiry ; but the child only looked hard 
at the speaker and said nothing. 

“Can you tell me your name, my boy?” was the 
next question ; but still there was no reply. 

“ Perhaps he is a foreigner,” thought Dr. Lighton. 
“His eyes are dark enough;” and, summoning up 
first French and then Italian, he tried if he could 
make himself understood. 

The child’s dark eyes had never left his face for an 
instant. Their glance was curiously intent, expres- 
sive of some feeling that it was impossible to define, 
full of a wistful perplexity that was akin to pain, 
which filled the young doctor with a sort of com- 
passion he did not altogether understand. 

Quite suddenly the child’s lips unclosed, and he 
said, very distinctly and softly, — 

“ I understood you before, thank you ; but I can 
speak French too. Is this France?” 

“No, we are in England, my little man. You are 
in your own country, and we will soon find your 
friends for you. What is your name?” 


1 6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


A look of distress and perplexity clouded the 
child’s face. 

“ I don’t know,” he answered. 

“Don’t know!” repeated Dr. Lighton, kindly. 
“Well, it will soon come back to you.” 

There was a long silence in the little room. David 
almost held his breath., for fear he should disturb the 
current of the little prince’s thoughts. His mother 
shook her head sympathetically and murmured, “ Poor 
lamb, poor lamb!” whilst the doctor’s eyes were 
fixed with keen professional scrutiny upon the child’s 
face. 

The look of bewildered distress had deepened 
there. The dark eyes began to burn with strange 
intensity, and with a sudden little frightened cry the 
boy pressed his two hands upon his head. 

“ I can’t remember — I can’t remember ! It’s all 
gone !” 

Dr. Lighton laid his own hand upon those of his 
little patient. 

“Never mind,” he said, in kindly, reassuring tones ; 
“it will all come back in time. Do not try to think, 
or you will only hurt yourself. Take some of this 
milk, and go to sleep. When you wake up again 
you will remember all about it, I dare say.” 


THE Fisherman's hut. 


i; 

The child was docile and obedient, as well as ex- 
ceedingly weak. He took what was offered from the 
doctor’s hands, and fell asleep shortly afterwards — 
the sleep of exhausted nature. 

“ Let him sleep ; see that he is not disturbed,” said 
the doctor to the fisherman’s wife, as they stood in 
the outer room together. “ He wants rest more than 
anything. He must not excite himself by talking.” 

“He’ll remember all about hisself by and by, doc- 
tor?” questioned the good woman, compassionately. 
“ I be main anxious to let his poor mother know he’s 
safe. She must be fretting sorely.” 

“Perhaps, perhaps,” answered the doctor, glancing 
over the sea, thinking to himself that the mother 
might in all probability be sleeping beneath the 
waves; “time and rest may work wonders for him ; 
but don’t press him, don’t try to force his memory. 
Let it come of itself by degrees. I’ll look round 
early to-morrow.” 

And with that the doctor took his departure, nod- 
ding a kindly adieu, and muttering, as he walked over 
the soft sandhills, — 

“A curious case, a curious case. I wonder how it 
will end.” 

The opinion of the kindly fisher-folk of the neigh- 


i8 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


boring hamlet was that the child would be able to give 
an account of himself, as soon as he had recovered a 
little more strength, and grown used to his surround- 
ings ; but day by day passed by, strength and spirit 
both began to revive, and still the little boy remained 
utterly silent as to his past history, and when the 
doctor questioned him (he had forbidden any one 
else to do so) as to his name, his parentage, his ante- 
cedents, a look of bewildered distress would cross his 
face, he would press his hands upon his head, and 
say, — 

“I can’t remember. It’s all gone. Oh, I don’t 
know anything about it!”^ 

Dr. Lighton never pressed him. He always turned 
the talk, with a smile or a kind word ; but as day by 
day passed on, and still no memory returned, he 
began to wonder how it would all end, and how long 
a time must elapse before the shaken faculties could 
reassert themselves. 

The boy grew better and stronger every day. He 
played with David unweariedly for many hours upon 
the bed, and when he was able to get up and be 
dressed in some of the elder boy’s clothes, — he had 
been washed ashore in a little nightdress and a rough 
blue pilot coat, — they wandered out upon the sand- 


THE FISHERMAN’S HUT. 10 

hills together, and enjoyed themselves after a peculiar 
fashion of their own. 

They were a very quiet pair, but not on that ac- 
count unhappy. David was in a state of quiet and 
ecstatic delight. It was enough for him to be with 
the stranger, to watch his every movement, wait upon 
him, talk to him, love him as only children can love 
their own kind, and to bask, as it were, in the light 
of his countenance. 

The little new boy was very silent and quiet. He 
answered when he was spoken to, but seldom volun- 
teered a remark. His eyes were always dreamy, and 
wore a look of wistful bewilderment and sorrow that 
was very expressive of the confused state of his mind. 
He would sit for hours gazing over the sea, with a 
strangely rapt expression of countenance, and when 
David spoke to him he would start and flush as if his 
thoughts had been very far away. 

He seemed to cling, in an abstract way, to the 
gentle-faced boy who watched him with such undi- 
vided interest and devotion ; but so far the conver- 
sation had been limited to a very few remarks, and 
even the games they played together were of a 
peculiarly silent description. 

The boy had a marked preference for the sand- 


20 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


hills and the shore, and an increasing distaste for the 
low cabin that somewhat distressed David and his 
good mother. 

This distaste was not expressed in words, but was 
manifested in a marked reluctance to come in, in an 
intense eagerness to get out, and in a quiet determi- 
nation not to eat his food until he had carried it into 
the purer air without. 

The food, too, as soon as he had advanced beyond 
the “slop stage,” seemed very unpalatable to him. 
He was too thoroughly the little gentleman to com- 
plain, but it was plain that he would never thrive on 
such coarse fare ; and the doctor was once more 
appealed to. 

He looked with a smile at the slight and graceful 
child, as he sat beside David on the sandhills, and 
said, — 

“It is plain something must be done, Mrs. Wick- 
ham ; he cannot go on much longer like this. You 
have done your share, and more. I must see to 
matters myself, I think.” 


CHAPTER II. 



THE SQUIRE’S HALL. 

r HE Squire sat in his library, surrounded 
by his books and papers; and Dr. 
Lighton sat opposite to him in earnest 
conversation. The Manor House of 
Arlingham was a fine old mediaeval house, pictur- 
esque both without and within. It was built of red 
sandstone, and its irregular outline, mullioned win- 
dows, and an air of peaceful antiquity, delighted all 
lovers of bygone days and their relics, whilst the 
interior of the old house was just what would be 
expected from the appearance it presented from 
without. The rooms were low, rather dim and 
dark, irregular in shape, yet delightfully cosey and 
comfortable. The stairs were of polished oak, as 
were the floor and walls of the panelled hall. There 
was nothing new in that house, nothing bright, 


22 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


staring, or incongruous. The stained glass windows 
admitted a rich, dusky light, and the peculiar still- 
ness and peaceful hush that often rests upon old 
houses whence all young life has fled pervaded all 
the rooms and corridors of the Manor House at 
Arlingham to an unusual extent, and no one could 
step within the shadows of the hall without being 
instantly conscious that they had entered a place 
whose life was rather a memory of the past than an 
active present. 

The Squire had lost his wife and all his children 
many years before. Arlingham still spoke with 
bated breath of that terrible year when cholera 
visited them, and, whilst the Squire and his lady 
were doing all that money and skill and benevolence 
could accomplish to succor their poorer neighbors, 
the awful visitor entered their own doors, and within 
a week the sweet lady all had learned to love was 
lying dead, as well as her two eldest boys — fine lads, 
the pride of Arlingham ; and before the death angel 
had stayed his hand, mother and five children — all 
her little ones — lay sleeping in the quiet churchyard, 
and the Squire, a hale man of but forty summers, 
was left quite alone in his desolated home. 

In one week his hair, which had been black as the 


THE SQUIRE’S HALL. 


23 


raven’s wing, had turned as white as the driven snow ; 
but otherwise no great outward change had fallen 
upon the Squire, and he had taken up the duties of 
his position with a strong hand and resolute will, 
only betraying the depth of his wound by his increas- 
ing distaste for any kind of society save that of his 
own people, with whom his duties brought him in 
contact, and his increasing shrinking from partaking 
in any of the amusements and social relaxations 
common to those of his position and standing. 

It was fifteen years now since the date of the fatal 
year that had cost him so terribly dear, — fifteen 
years, and yet the memory of his loss was still green 
in his heart, and, although he never spoke 0/ it, his 
servants, and indeed all Arlingham, knew that he had 
not forgotten, and never would forget. He had lived 
his life alone, true to the memory of those he had 
loved, and he would live it alone to the end. 

He had many friends, but few intimates. He was 
universally liked and respected in the county, but 
distances were long, his habits those of a recluse, and 
visitors were rare at the Manor House. Young Mr. 
Lighton, who had lately settled in the neighborhood, 
was a distant connection of the Squire’s, and partly 
perhaps on tha't account, partly from a similarity in 


24 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


some of their tastes, partly because the elderly man 
was sincerely kind-hearted and knew that the place 
was very dull and quiet, the young physician had 
been made more welcome at the Manor House than 
any one else had been for many long years ; and he 
had- grown to understand thoroughly the nature and 
character of the white-headed, keen-eyed Squire. 

He often dropped in after dinner for a little chat, 
as he had done on this occasion. 

The library was a very comfortable room, with its 
walls warmly lined with books, its two great oriel 
windows, and the wide hearth, where in the even- 
ings, for the greater part of the year, the great logs 
blazed .cheerily, sending out showers of sparks that 
were whirled upwards into the dark cavern of the 
huge, old-fashioned chimney. 

Dr. Lighton liked this room, with its flickering 
lights and shadows, and its central object of interest, 
the stalwart figure of the Squire, with his snow-white 
head, his fine, handsome face stamped with the in- 
delible lines of a great sorrow heroically borne, and 
his commanding air that had lost but little of its 
youthful strength and firmness, notwithstanding the 
years that had rolled over his head. 

The young physician enjoyed his evening talks 


THE SQUIRE’S HALL. 


25 


with the Squire as much as any part of his day’s 
work, but on this particular occasion his thoughts 
were less engrossed by his host than was usual, for 
he had another more pressing matter on his mind. 

“ Undoubtedly a very interesting case, I should 
say; and a remarkable one, too,” observed' the 
Squire, after hearing the doctor’s story. “What do 
you imagine will be the end of it?” 

“The end, if the child is left in his present sur- 
roundings, will be that he will pine away and die,” 
answered the young man, with a little impetuosity. 
“ It is plain as daylight that he is a gentleman’s son, 
and has been reared up in every luxury. Every day 
proves more clearly how utterly unfitted he is for his 
life ; and of course the poor woman cannot keep him 
always. The money you kindly sent down has kept 
her so far from feeling any loss by her goodness to 
the child ; but she expects her husband and sons 
home shortly, and then she must turn out the little 
stranger. The cabin is barely large enough for the 
family as it is ; besides, it would be unreasonable to 
expect her to adopt the little waif. She is not in a 
position to do it.” 

“ Decidedly not. What is to become of the child? 
I suppose the parish will be responsible for him,” 


2 6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Dr. Lighton looked quickly at the impassive face 
of his interlocutor. 

“ It would be absurd to send a boy like that to the 
workhouse,” he said, in the same slightly impetuous 
manner. “He is a gentleman’s son, every inch of 
him. His voice, his ‘manner, his appearance, all 
show it. Any day he may be able to recall the 
past, — it may all come back like a flash, although I 
admit that the process may be much more tedious, 
— and it would be sheer cruelty to have turned the 
child into a pauper and made him rough it with a 
lot of lads no more like himself than chalk is like 
cheese. If you were only to see the child, Squire, 
you would understand my meaning.” 

The Squire turned his gaze full upon the young 
doctor’s face. 

“And why do you tell all this to me? You have 
some reason. What is it?” 

Dr. Lighton knew by the expression of the Squire’s 
face that the time had come to speak out and say 
exactly what he did mean. 

“ I will tell you,” he said, frankly ; “ you may think 
I am taking an unwarrantable liberty, but, if so, I can 
only crave your pardon. You are the great man of 
the place here, the Squire, and the friend of the 


THE SQUIRE’S HALL. 


2 ? 


people. A little waif has been cast up almost at 
your doors, and, until he is able to remember his 
past history and assist in his own identification, some- 
body must in common humanity give him a home 
and look after him a little. He is obviously of gentle 
birth, and wants the gentle treatment to which he has 
been used. You are the only wealthy man in the 
place, the only friend to whom I can plead my cause, 
for you know what Lady Arbuthnot is like. I thought 
you might be willing to take an interest in the boy, 
to let him come here for a time perhaps, and give 
him a temporary asylum until his own home could 
be found. Rather than he should go to the parish, I 
would take him myself ; but a bachelor in small lodg- 
ings is at a great disadvantage ; whereas this house 
is large, and the staff of servants in all ways adequate 
to the wants of more than a solitary — ” 

A quick spasm of pain contracted the Squire’s 
face. The young man saw it and paused. 

“ I hope I have not taken an unwarrantable liberty 
in making the suggestion,” he said. 

. A few minutes of silence ensued before there was 
any answer. 

“You have surprised me a little, I admit,” an- 
swered the Squire; “but there is force in what you 


28 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


say. I believe I am the right person to see after this 
waif. Legally, of course, there is no claim upon me ; 
but I admit the moral claim.” 

Dr. Lighton’s eyes brightened. 

“You are very good to say so.” 

“Not at all. I do not profess I want the child 
here; I shall not see much of him if he comes. I 
have no disposition to look at the case sentimentally ; 
but you appeal to my sense of justice and hospitality. 
A small atom of humanity has been cast up at our 
doors, and I, as the Squire of the place, admit that 
my door is the one that should open to him.” 

“I confess I hoped you might see it in that light,” 
admitted Dr. Lighton. “ I trust you will not con- 
sider I have been intrusive in saying so much.” 

“Not at all. You have only done your duty 
promptly, whilst I have been inclined to be slack in 
the performance of mine. You consider it probable 
that the boy’s memory will return shortly?” 

“I should be quite inclined to think so, and all the 
sooner for a return to civilized life. Some chord can 
hardly fail to be struck, and at any moment a flash 
of memory might bring the whole past back. No- 
body can pronounce a decided opinion in such cases; 
but my own feeling is that such a state of mind will 


the squire's hall. 29 

Only prove a temporary phase, and that he will soon 
be able to give a rational account of himself.” 

“Very good,” returned the Squire; “the sooner 
the better for me ; but until that time comes he shall 
have a home here. I will send for him to-morrow.” 

“You are very good,” answered the young man; 
“I feel personally grateful.” 

The Squire smiled a little. 

“You seem to take an interest in the child.” 

“ I do. The case is interesting professionally for 
one thing, and there is undoubtedly something inter- 
esting in the boy himself, as you will see for yourself 
when he comes.” 

The Squire’s face had put on an expression not 
easy to read. 

“I shall hardly be likely to see much of him my- 
self,” he said, with an odd intonation in his voice. 
“Children are not in my line.” 

And then he turned to his table, leaned one elbow 
upon it and his head on his hand, turning over some 
papers with an air of deep abstraction. 

Dr. Lighton knew by instinct that he was a good 
deal moved, little as he betrayed it, by the revival of 
some memories of the past. He judged it advisable 
to take his departure, and he did so at once, the 


30 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Squire, who still appeared abstracted and unlike him- 
self, offering no remonstrance to this early move. 
Indeed, he hardly seemed to notice his guest’s de- 
parture, and returned his farewell with unusual 
brevity. 

When he found himself alone, he rose from his 
seat and began pacing the room slowly backwards 
and forwards with measured tread. 

Presently he paused, and rang the bell with a cer- 
tain force and decision of touch, and when the gray- 
haired butler appeared in answer to the summons he 
merely said, briefly, — 

“Send Mrs. Pritchard to me.” 

Mrs. Pritchard was the housekeeper now. She had 
been nurse to the children in bygone days, and had 
served in the family ever since she was a slim girl of 
fifteen. She was a stout, buxom woman now, with a 
pleasant face and a respectful manner. Her master 
trusted her implicitly, and she never betrayed his 
trust. 

“ Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, quietly, “ be good enough 
to be seated for a few minutes.” 

The Squire was sitting himself now in his custom- 
ary chair. Mrs. Pritchard did as she was bid, and 
sat down facing him. 


THE SQUIRE’S HALL. 


31 


“No doubt you have heard, Mrs. Pritchard, of the 
little boy at the fisherman’s cottage, who was washed 
up after the storm the other day, and can give no 
account of himself?” 

“Ay, sir, I have, poor lamb! I saw him on the 
shore the other day with David. My heart fairly 
ached for him, that it did.” 

The Squire smiled a little. 

“Your heart was always tender, Mrs. Pritchard. 
Well, what did you think of the child?” 

“A little gentleman born, if ever there was one,” 
answered the worthy housekeeper, with some warmth. 
“He was dressed just like the other boy, in old 
patched clothes, but the difference between them ! 
Why, the little one was on his feet almost before he 
knew I was speaking to them, and took off his cap 
as pretty as could be, and answered so gentle, and 
quite like as if he’d been used to company all his life. 
Poor lamb, it isn’t fitting he should stay in such a 
place. The look in his eyes fairly haunts me, it 
does. I can’t get it out of my head.” 

“Well, Mrs. Pritchard, I have been hearing the 
same story from other quarters. What should you 
say to having him here to take care of, until he can 
tell us where his own home is?” 


32 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


The housekeeper’s face brightened visibly. 

“Do you really mean it, sir?” 

“Certainly. Dr. Lighton has spoken upon the 
subject, and I agree with him in thinking that this 
house should be the one to shelter him until we can 
discover something about him. Are you prepared 
to put up with the trouble of having a child about 
the place for a few weeks?” 

“ Oh, sir,” cried the good woman, clasping her 
hands together in a sudden outbreak of feeling, “if 
there is one thing would make me happier than an- 
other, it would be to have a child to tend and care 
for again !” 

The Squire turned his face slightly away; he took 
out his keys and began fumbling in the drawer of the 
table before him. 

“Very good, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said at length, 
after rather a long pause, and speaking with manifest 
effort. “Then you had better make all necessary 
arrangements, and get the nurseries ready for him 
by to-morrow. He had better live there entirely, 
except when he is out of doors. You will arrange 
all that; but understand that I do not care about 
seeing him all over the house.” 


THE squire’s hall. 33 

“Yes, sir, I will take care of that,” answered Mrs. 
Pritchard, with ready comprehension. 

“And you must get him whatever he wants in the 
way of clothes,” continued the Squire, handing across 
a crisp bank-note. “You had better have the dog- 
cart, and get William to drive you both in to Twing 
to-morrow morning. Buy whatever is needful for the 
present, and order what you cannot get at once. The 
child must look as he should whilst he stays under 
my roof.” 

Mrs. Pritchard rose and curtsied and took the 
money held out. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said; “I will see that your 
wishes are carried out to the best of my powers.” 

She withdrew, and the Squire was left alone with 
his books and his dying fire. The night was merging 
into day before he roused himself from the reverie 
into which he had sunk, and extinguished the lamp 
that had grown pale in the feeble glimmer of coming 
dawn. 


CHAPTER III. 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 



p)HE Squire’s study had a westerly aspect 
and as evening drew on the sunset rays 
streamed into the quaint, quiet room 
and flooded it with golden light. The 
old calf-bound books upon the long rows of shelves 
took all manner of rich hues, and the picture over the 
fireplace, representing a beautiful woman with two 
fair children beside her, seemed to awake to a new 
and smiling life. 

The Squire had been a little less self-possessed 
than usual upon this particular day. Work seemed 
irksome to him. He had not been able to give un- 
divided attention to his bailiff’s accounts of the farm 
and stock, and shortly after he had finished his lunch 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 35 

he ordered his horse and set out for a ride over the 
estate, feeling that air and exercise would be more 
congenial to him in his present mood than any sed- 
entary work could be. He did not examine into his 
state of mind, nor ask himself why it was that he was 
disturbed and unlike himself; but he recognized that 
such was the case, and accepted it without comment 
or question. 

He returned home as the sun was slowly sinking 
in the west, and went straight to his study as usual, 
but when he stood upon the threshold he stopped 
suddenly short and stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed 
with intent scrutiny upon something in the room that 
appeared to give him the keenest surprise. 

Nothing very remarkable to other eyes was pre- 
sented by the spectacle of that quiet room bathed in 
the golden sunset, only upon the cushioned seat of 
the great oriel window sat a little boy with a delicate- 
featured, pale face and a pair of wistful dark eyes. 

The child leaned his head against the window and 
gazed intently out upon the western sky, painted with 
all the gorgeous hues of sunset; and he was evidently 
entirely unconscious of his present surroundings or 
that his solitude had been invaded. 

The Squire stood for some minutes gazing fixedly 


36 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


at the little intruder. A frown had quickly clouded 
his face when his eyes had first fallen upon the childish 
figure ; but as he stood there in the shadow of the 
doorway, and noticed the perplexed and settled sad- 
ness of the boy’s expression and the hungry, unsatis- 
fied longing in his earnest gaze, the frown slowly 
faded and a more gentle look came into the weather- 
beaten face. Still, discipline was discipline, and or- 
ders were orders ; the child had no right to be there, 
and the Squire was too much the master in his own 
house not to feel a passing sense of displeasure at 
this direct infringement of his commands. 

He walked forward into the room and settled him- 
self in his usual chair, without taking the least notice 
of the child perched up in the window-seat. 

Minutes flew by, and still the silence remained un- 
broken. The Squire turned over his papers, but he 
did not master their contents in his usual rapid way. 
His ears were keenly alive to the faint sounds that 
proceeded from the window behind him, and an im- 
patient wish that Mrs. Pritchard would come and 
claim her little charge rose more than once in his 
mind. 

This ignoring of the child’s presence in the room 
seemed even to himself strained and unnatural ; and 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 


37 


yet he had no business to be there at all, and the 
Squire knew that it would never do to encourage 
such a breach of discipline. 

Suddenly he was aware that a small soft hand was 
laid upon his own, and a sweet little voice said, In 
accents of eager, tremulous surprise, — 

“ Grandpapa !” 

The Squire turned quickly in his chair to meet the 
pleading, earnest gaze of those liquid brown eyes fixed 
upon him with an almost pathetic intensity. 

‘‘Grandpapa!” said the child again, but this time 
with more of distressed uncertainty in his tone, and 
the delicate little lips began to quiver as the boy 
glanced up into the unresponsive face before him. 

“Why do you call me that, little boy?” asked the 
Squire, gravely. 

The child’s hand was pressed to his forehead, his 
eyes brightened unnaturally. 

“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly, and a tear 
gathered upon the long lashes. 

After all, the Squire was a father, and, although 
that very fact made the sight of the boy painful ,to 
him, he was not on that account hard-hearted, nor 
could he look with an unmoved countenance upon 
the distress of a little child. 


38 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


He drew the little fellow gently between his knees, 
and it seemed as if there was something in the 
fatherly touch that went home to the heart of the 
lonely child in some overpowering way, for he sud- 
denly laid his head against the Squire’s shoulder 
and burst into convulsive weeping. 

There was something very touching in the name- 
less sorrow of the little lonely child, who was so 
utterly forsaken in the great world, without home or 
kindred or even a name to call his own. His partial 
realization of his anomalous position gave a pathos to 
his distress that raised it above the level of ordinary 
childish grief. 

The Squire could have found it in his heart to wish 
that he had not been the recipient of this burst of 
sorrow, but he could not for a moment refuse to 
comfort the child, who clung to him as to a natural 
protector. He put his arm round the sobbing boy, 
and by and by said, in kindly accents, — 

“There, there, my little man, there, there! Do 
not cry so bitterly. What is it all about? Let us 
see if something can’t be done to make it better.” 

The tone rather than the words seemed to soothe 
the agitated boy ; his sobs were slowly checked, and, 
although he did not lift his head from its resting- 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 


39 


place upon the broad shoulder, the little frame ceased 
to tremble so convulsively and gradually became still. 

When the child’s tears seemed fairly conquered, 
the Squire put him a little farther away and looked 
at him steadily; with an intent expression upon his 
fine, commanding face. 

The little boy looked up timidly, but he did not 
seem alarmed by the glance he encountered. Chil- 
dren have a marvellous instinct in distinguishing be- 
tween the sternness of an inflexible yet just and kindly 
nature and that of harshness and tyranny. 

His wistful glance travelled upwards till it rested 
upon the snow-white hair that gave to the Squire a 
more venerable appearance than his years indicated, 
and again a little smile shone out from the sad eyes, 
and the same word sprang in a whisper to the lips 
that quivered yet with the past fit of weeping, — 

“ Grandpapa !” 

“So that is to be your name for me, is it?” ques- 
tioned the Squire, kindly. “Very well, it will do as 
Well as any other. And what am I to call you ?” 

The child’s hand went up to his head. 

“I don’t know,” he said, pitifully. 

“Well, then, I must think of something for myself. 
You have given me a name, so I must give you one. 


40 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


What shall it be, I wonder? Shall we say Bertie? 
That gives us a certain license, you see, and does not 
commit us to anything very definite, eh, Bertie?” 

The child smiled a little uncertain, tearful smile. 
The name did not appear to arouse any associations ; 
but still it was something to have a name again. 

“And now, Bertie, tell me why it was you came 
here at all? Where is Mrs. Pritchard?” 

“She is having her tea. She left me in the nur- 
sery, and said she should soon be back. I came 
down-stairs to go into the garden, and then I saw 
the door open, and the books, and I came in to look. 
I like a library ; I always used” — but here the look 
of bewilderment swept over the boy’s face again, and 
he concluded, confusedly, “I mean, nobody was 
there, and it all looked nice and quiet, and so I came 
in and sat there, and then you came back, and I 
thought — ” 

“Never mind, never mind what you thought,” in- 
terposed the Squire, hastily, for the look in the child’s 
eyes was painfully bewildered and strained. “Tell 
me if you know who I am.” 

“You are the Squire,” answered Bertie, promptly, 
looking more natural and childlike again. “I saw 
you ride out on your big brown horse to-day ; and 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 


41 


yesterday I saw you walking in the garden and telling 
the men what to do. Mrs. Pritchard says that all 
this big house belongs to you. Are you ever lonely 
living here all by yourself ?” 

The Squire looked down into the child’s upturned 
face, and a curious shade passed over his own. 

“What do you know about being lonely?” he 
asked, in an odd, muffled voice. 

Bertie put his hand over his eyes ; and then, after 
a moment’s pause, looked up again smiling. 

“ I was lonely down by the sea with David. He 
was very kind, and I liked him, and so was his 
mother. But I was lonely with them. It isn’t half 
so lonely here with you.” 

“You are not lonely, then, with Mrs. Pritchard in 
the nursery, I suppose?” 

Bertie hesitated. 

“Mrs. Pritchard is very kind,” he said, with a little 
courtly air that was almost amusing, — “very kind 
indeed ; but, somehow, this feels more natural , you 
know.” 

The Squire, as he found the child grew more com- 
posed and quiet, began to return to his former state 
of mind as regarded his position in the house. 

“ But you must understand, Bertie, that the nursery 


42 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


is your room, and that this is mine. You must not 
come here without leave.” 

The child’s face put on a look of distress and per- 
plexity. 

“Isn’t this a library!” he said. 

“Yes; this is my library.” 

“I always used to sit in the library when I wanted 
to,” he said, appealingly. “ I never did any harm. 
I like the smell of the books, you know. Ours used 
to smell just the same.” 

“Yours?” interrogated the Squire, hoping to elicit 
some further intelligence. 

“ Grandpapa’s,” was the prompt response ; but 
there Bertie stuck fast. The moment he tried to 
recollect anything, everything fled away in painful 
confusion; reminiscences sprang unconsciously to his 
lips, but eluded him pitilessly the moment he tried to 
arrange his ideas and seize upon a memory of the 
past. The tears again stood in his eyes, and he put 
up his hands, crying piteously, — 

“ Oh, why can’t I remember? Why does it all run 
away so fast?” 

The Squire had to turn comforter again. 

“Never mind, little chap, it will all come back of 
itself some day. Don’t you worry your head over it ; 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 43 

that will make matters worse instead of better. Ah ! 
and here comes Mrs. Pritchard, looking for her lost 
lamb. She will wonder what has brought you here.” 

Mrs. Pritchard’s face expressed a good deal of 
alarm and confusion as she appeared in the doorway, 
guided there by the sound of voices. 

“Indeed, sir, but Pm truly sorry !” she exclaimed. 
“ I had no idea the child had left the nurseries. I 
truly am most — ” 

“Never mind, never mind, Mrs. Pritchard,” an- 
swered the Squire, quietly. “Children will stray, 
and I do not expect you to alter your usual routine 
on his account. Take him away now; but if he is a 
good boy, you may dress him and send him down to 
dessert. He will be all the better for a little more 
change, and will have less time to think.” 

Mrs. Pritchard looked deeply gratified, and thanked 
the Squire as if he had been conferring some personal 
favor upon herself. 

“We have settled upon a name for him, Mrs. 
Pritchard,” continued the Squire. “He is to be 
Master Bertie, until we know any better. He will 
be wanting his tea now; you had better take him 
away.” 

Bertie followed the housekeeper obediently, and 


44 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


the Squire was left alone to his own meditations, and 
as he turned to his papers he sighed once or twice. 

“Poor little fellow!” he said; “poor little fellow! 
Well, I suppose it will all come right some day soon. 
Very odd turn of affairs altogether.” 

Meantime Bertie was silently discussing his sub- 
stantial nursery tea, whilst Mrs. Pritchard sat by, 
busy with her needle. 

By and by the little boy spoke. 

“Was it naughty of me to go into grandpapa’s 
library, Mrs. Pritchard?” 

The good woman started visibly. 

“The Squire’s library, you mean, dearie?” 

“Yes, I know he’s the Squire; but he seems like 
grandpapa, you know; and he said I had found a 
name for him, and then he found one for me. 
Grandpapa is a nicer name than Squire, you know. 
I don’t think I ever knew a squire before.” 

“He did not mind you calling him so? Well, to 
be sure, he is always kind and good. But, Master 
Bertie dear, you must not go there without leave. 
It’s only the nurseries that belong to you.” 

Bertie looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said 
nothing. The look upon his face touched his kind 
friend, and she added, reassuringly — , 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 45 

“It isn’t anything as has vexed him with you, 
dearie, but he’s had a deal of trouble has the Squire, 
and there’s some things as it hurts him to talk of, 
and one of them is children.” 

Bertie’s eyes were very wide open now, brimful of 
eager intelligence. 

“I don’t understand, please, Mrs. Pritchard. Why 
do children hurt him?” 

“Because, dearie, he once had five little ones of 
his own; and there came a dreadful sickness here 
one year, and they all five died within a fortnight ; 
and the Squire has never been the same man since, 
and no child has ever set foot inside the house, till 
you came three days ago.” 

Bertie’s gaze was very intent. 

“Did they all die?” 

“Ay, that they did, and the mother too; and he 
was left all alone.” 

Bertie looked dreamily out of the window. 

“What is dying?” he asked. 

Mrs. Pritchard hesitated how to reply; and Bertie 
gave the answer to his own question. 

“Isn’t it when God takes people away with Him 
that people say they are dead?” 

The ready tears had started to Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes. 


46 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Ay, indeed ’tis so, Master Bertie dear; but we’re 
sadly given to forget that.” 

“I haven’t forgotten that,” said Bertie, slowly, “but 
I can’t remember who told me.” He looked hard at 
Mrs. Pritchard and asked, earnestly, “Do you think 
God knows all about me?” 

“Ay, my dearie, I suppose He knows everything.” 

“I wish He would let me remember,” said the 
child, wistfully. “Do you think He will?” 

“Yes, dearie, I do. He is very good to us, for all 
He sends us trouble sometimes. You can ask Him, 
you know, when you say your prayers to-night ; you 
can ask Him any time.” 

Bertie’s hand was pressed to his head, his eyes 
glowed strangely. 

“Somebody said — ” He paused, and then went 
on again, “Somebody said that we must not choose 
ourselves, only ask God to choose for us. I can’t 
remember just what it was. But it was like Jesus, 
you know, in the garden, when He said “Thy will be 
done,” to everything. I must say “Thy will be done” 
too, mustn’t I, about remembering things again? I 
know they said that — I can’t have made it up.” 

He was growing distressed, as he so easily did 
when the vanished memory eluded his grasp ; but 


A LITTLE INTRUDER. 


47 


Mrs. Pritchard took him into her motherly embrace 
and soothed and quieted him. Very soon the child 
was himself again, and looked at her with a smile. 

“I’ve got ‘Our Father’ left still, you see, Mrs. 
Pritchard,” he said, with a sort of quaint gravity that 
was very touching in its way. “ He is my Father, isn’t 
He? even if Pm quite lost, He knows where I am, 
and He takes care of me, Pm sure. I don’t think 
He’ll ever quite forget me, and p’raps He’ll let me 
find my real home some day ; but I’ll always say ‘Thy 
will be done’ about it.” Then, looking quickly up 
into the kind face above him, he asked, “Perhaps 
grandpapa will explain it all and help me. He had 
to say ‘Thy will be done’ when God took his little 
children away, and I suppose that was very hard.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


queenie’s home. 

DO hate term-time!” cried Queenie, 
stamping her little foot and looking alto- 
gether fierce and out of sorts. “I hate 
all the boys to be away ! Why do boys 
have to go to school? I’m sure they don’t learn so 
very much ; I believe I know more than most of them. 
Boys ought either to stay at home or else take their 
sisters to school with them.” 

And Queenie, who was standing in the middle of 
her big nursery surrounded by piles of books and 
toys, looked triumphantly round her, as if she had 
uttered a very fine sentiment indeed. Her nurse, who 
was quietly working by the window, smiled a little at 
this outbreak. 



QUEEN IE’S HOME'. 


49 " 


“ Perhaps young gentlemen might not care about 
taking their sisters with them,” she suggested, mildly ; 
but Queenie tossed her head with a supercilious air. 

“ My brothers always like to have ;;^ with them,” 
she answered. “It’s perfectly horrid when fhey all 
go away. Nothing is any fun without boys.” 

“You won’t think so long, Miss Queenie. It’s 
only just at first that it seems dull-like.” 

Queenie stamped her foot. I am afraid she often 
did so, being a very excitable young lady, and with- 
out much control over herself. 

“It isn’t!” she cried, angrily; “it’s all the time, 
every bit of it — a whole horrid three months nearly ! 
I hate people who try and pretend things aren’t what 
they are. It’s very stupid and very unkind. You 
know I’m always miserable when the boys are away, 
and it’s not a bit of good pretending I’m not!” 

Queenie turned defiantly upon her nurse as she 
made this challenge ; but the wise woman, knowing 
well the disposition of her little mistress, held her 
peace. 

Queenie sat down suddenly in the middle of her 
toys and stared about her disconsolately. 

“It is horrid to live in a place where there isn’t a 
single boy.” 


50 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“There is a boy now at the Manor House,” re- 
marked the nurse, threading her needle afresh. 

Queenie looked up, all interest and vivacity. 

“A boy at the Manor House!” she repeated. 
“Who is he? I didn’t know the Squire had any 
boys.” 

“Neither he has, Miss Queenie. Poor man, he 
lost them all. The little boy he has with him now is 
the one, you know, who drifted ashore after the last 
storm, who doesn’t know who he is nor where he came 
from, poor little fellow.” 

“Why doesn’t he?” 

“He can’t remember; he’s forgotten it all. His 
head was hurt somehow, and when he got better he’d 
forgotten everything he knew about himself.” 

“ How funny !” cried Queenie. “I wonder what it 
feels like to forget everything like that.” 

The nurse shook her head, and Queenie.went on 
with her own train of thought. 

“ I think it would be rather nice to forget every- 
thing and begin again quite fresh. It would be so 
funny. I should like to forget all my lessons, and 
to go on forgetting them, so that by and by people 
would say it was no good teaching me any more, and 
I should do just as I liked all day.” 


QUEENIE’S HOME. 


51 


“You would soon be very glad to go back to your 
lessons again, Miss Queenie,” answered the nurse, 
quietly. “There is nothing in the world so dull as 
having no regular employment.” 

This wise remark did not provoke any ridicule 
from Queenie at this moment, as it would usually 
have done. She had other things to think of now. 

“ Why has the little boy gone to the Manor 
House?” she asked. 

“I suppose the Squire asked him there. You see 
he has no friends to take care of him — at least he 
cannotfind them yet. The Squire isaverykind man.” 

“Mamma doesn’t like him,” remarked Queenie. 
“She tells people he is very unsociable, and does 
not treat her with proper respect. I think he looks 
a nice old man. I met him once when I was out on 
my pony, and had run away from William and lost 
him. He picked up my whip for me because I’d 
dropped it, and when I thanked him, he smiled and 
looked quite kind, though in church he is always so 
grave and solemn. But I can’t think why he should 
take a little fisherman’s boy to live in his house.” 

The nurse smiled a little. 

“Who told you he was a fisherman’s boy, Miss 
Queenie?” 


52 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Queenie tossed her little curly head with the air of 
one who half resents such a question. 

“Why, of course he is! everybody knows that. 
He lived ever so many days in that dirty little hut 
with the Wickhams. I saw him one day on the 
sands, playing with David. Only quite a common 
boy could possibly think of doing that!” 

The nurse smiled again. 

“Well, Miss Queenie, however that may be, there 
are other opinions about the little boy. Anyway, he 
is living at the Manor House now, and Mrs. Pritchard 
does not think it beneath her to wait upon him, — 
fisherman’s boy or no.” 

Queenie listened with interest to this account of 
the little stranger; but she would not admit that she 
could possibly be mistaken in her estimate of him. 

“I’ve seen him,” she said; “he was dressed in 
horrid old clothes. I’m quite sure he can’t be a 
gentleman’s son. It’s quite ridiculous!” 

“And I suppose, Miss Queenie, if you happened 
to get lost some day, and were found by poor people, 
and dressed in poor clothes, you would not be a 
gentleman’s little daughter any longer?” 

Queenie flushed indignantly, and drew up her little 
head. 


QUEENIE’S HOME. 


53 


“I am Sir Walter Arbuthnot’s only daughter,” she 
said, in her most stately way. “Nothing that could 
happen could make any difference to that.” 

Nurse smiled again. 

“Oh, I thought it was all a matter of clothes.” 

Queenie made no reply. She began to see that 
there was something more than that to be taken into 
consideration ; but she was not going to make any 
rash admissions to her nurse, whose ideas upon some 
subjects did not at all commend themselves to the 
little lady. 

But she thought a good deal about the little boy 
who had come to the Manor House, and wove several 
romances about him. She wondered whether she 
would ever make his acquaintance, what he would be 
like if she did, and whether he would prove worthy 
of the notice she half resolved she would take of him 
should the opportunity present itself. 

Queenie, as will be seen from what has gone before, 
was a little lady with a great idea of her own impor- 
tance. It was not altogether her own fault that she 
had this exalted opinion of herself. She was an only 
daughter, and had been spoiled ever since she was 
born. The youngest of the family and the only girl, 
it was no wonder she had been made much of, and 


54 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


her beauty, her self-will, and her quickness all helped 
to increase the dangers and difficulties of the position. 
Her father gave way to her whims in everything, 
whenever she appealed to him, for he was much en- 
tertained by her vivacity and delighted in her fear- 
lessness and high spirit. He secretly countenanced 
those acts of insubordination and defiance of authority 
that shocked Lady Arbuthnot’s sense of propriety, 
and cared nothing at all about her “tomboy tricks” 
so long as she was always ready to amuse him by 
her sharp sayings when she came in to dessert or 
was sent for into the drawing-room. The mother, 
on the other hand, disliked all this tendency to frolic 
and careless deportment, and sedulously cultivated 
what she termed the graceful side of her little daugh- 
ter’s character. In plain words, she tried hard to 
instill a great deal of vanity and foolish pride into 
Queenie’s youthful mind, and had it not been for the 
child’s healthy love for play and natural freedom from 
petty follies of this kind, she would in all probability 
have become before this time a little woman of fashion 
instead of a happy, careless child. 

As it was, in spite of many drawbacks and many 
dangers, the child was a child still, — proud, self- 
willed, and passionate, it is true, yet on the whole 


QUEENIE’S HOME. 


55 


'generous, well-disposed and merry, satisfied with her- 
self and with most things about her. She was not 
spoiled yet, whatever she might be later, and she 
undoubtedly owed much to the kindly and judicious 
treatment of her nurse. 

Queenie thought a good deal more of her nurse’s 
opinion than she was at all aware of ; and as nurse 
had said that the little boy who had been received at 
the Manor House was a gentleman’s son — or seemed 
so — the small lady at the Court began to think a 
good deal about him, and to wonder if she should 
ever be allowed to make his acquaintance. 

Queenie’s parents had not lived for more, than a 
year at the Court, and they hardly knew the Squire 
at all. He did not pay calls in a general way, and 
although he had broken through his habitual seclusion 
to pay his respects to Lady Arbuthnot on her first 
arrival there, he had not repeated the visit, and she 
had taken offence at what she considered a lack of 
proper respect. They were very near neighbors, and 
yet almost strangers. Sir Walter would say in his 
careless fashion that the old Squire was a good fellow 
enough, only growing very rusty with being so shut 
up in his dismal house all alone ; but no intercourse 
existed between the neighbors, and Lady Arbuthnot 


5<5 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


took somewhat an exaggerated view of the old man’s 
unsociable disposition. A vain woman in a small 
neighborhood, with little to occupy her thoughts, is 
likely to get into a silly way of making much out of 
little, and her annoyance with the Squire was out 
of all proportion to the supposed affront. 

Queenie knew a great deal more of her mother’s 
opinions than was at all advisable ; and so she felt 
considerable doubt as to whether any friendship would 
be permitted between her and the little strange boy 
who had drifted ashore by the storm. Still she was 
not a child who was easily daunted by opposition, 
and she was quite convinced in her own mind that, 
if she liked the looks of the new-comer, she would 
soon find a way of making his acquaintance. 

When Sunday came round, Queenie was conscious 
of a little sense of excitement as she allowed herself 
to be dressed for church. She knew that the Squire 
was never absent from the great square pew just 
opposite their own, and that, if the little boy were 
there with him, she could not fail to have an excellent 
yiew of him. 

Lady Arbuthnot was not very well that day, so that 
Queenie would have the satisfaction of going alone 
with her father, which always pleased her very much, 


queenie’s home. 


57 


for she could chatter to him the whole time during 
the double walk, sit in her mother’s corner at church 
and use her beautiful velvet-bound books. The little 
girl always stood upon the high footstool during such 
parts of the service as it was possible, and indulged 
secret hopes that strangers in the church would take 
her to be Lady Arbuthnot. 

To-day she had herself dressed in excellent time, 
and coaxed her father into his light overcoat quite 
five minutes before he was disposed to start, in order 
to be sure to be in time to see the Squire’s entrance. 

Sir Walter was very good-tempered and very fond 
of his little daughter. Queenie looked particularly 
bright and pretty to-day, her blue eyes beaming with 
excitement and pleasure, her golden curls straying 
out from beneath the brim of her little velvet cap, 
and her pretty spring dress, warm yet light, all fresh 
from the hands of careful nurse. She was a dainty 
little maiden as regarded her clothes, despite her 
active “tomboy” nature, and Sir Walter was pleased 
to take her hand in his and listen to her merry chatter 
as they walked through the copse and over the fields 
together. 

She did not speak of the thought uppermost in her 
head. Some instinct of caution sealed her lips until 


58 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


her own mind should be made up on the subject. 
She must see the little boy herself before she could 
possibly tell whether she wished to take any step 
towards forming his acquaintance. She was not at 
all sure, in spite of nurse’s vague hints, that he would 
prove to be worthy of the honor she proposed to 
extend to him in bestowing upon him her friendship. 

The Squire had not yet arrived when the Arbuth- 
nots took their places. So far so good. Queenie 
settled herself with dignity in her seat, and prepared 
to wait for him. • 

She had not to wait long ; the Squire was always 
in excellent time, and very soon she saw the familiar 
white head passing in through the open door. 

Was he alone? No, surely not ! In another mo- 
ment all doubt was at an end. He had entered, 
leading by the hand a little boy in a suit of black 
velvet, and in another moment or two the children 
were sitting quietly in their places immediately facing 
one another. 

Queenie’s gaze immediately fastened upon the little 
boy’s face, and fixed itself there with the unconscious 
interest and frankness only possible in childhood. 

“How pretty he is!” was her first thought; her 
second “But, how sad!” 


QUEENIE’S HOME. 


59 


She had certainly never seen any one quite like 
him before. She could not tell what it was made 
him so different from other -boys she had known ; 
but she was quite aware that there was a difference. 

No boy she had ever seen before had ever looked 
dreamy and sorrowful and bewildered, as this little 
boy did almost all through the service. The wistful 
sadness in his great dark eyes stirred Queenie’s sym- 
pathy as much as it quickened her imagination. 

All her doubts as to the little boy’s “fitness” to be 
her friend vanished, she knew not how. All that 
seemed of any importance now was that he seemed 
lonely and unhappy, and that of course she must 
make friends with him and try to comfort him. She 
caught herself wondering again and again what he 
could be thinking of, as he sat so still in his corner, 
his eyes sometimes fixed upon the clergyman, some- 
times wandering dreamily towards one or another of 
the stained glass windows. Did it all seem very 
strange to him? or did he remember what a church 
was like and feel at home there? His deportment 
was quite'correct, but that might be imitation. How 
much did he remember, and how much was forgotten? 
It was a question that affected her imagination keenly 
and quite occupied all her thoughts. 


6o 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


She was glad that the little boy was younger than 
herself, though she could hardly have said why. He 
did not look a bit more than seven or eight, whilst 
she was nearly ten, and he did not look at all strong. 
She would be able to patronize and protect him, 
which was of all things what she loved best to do. 

Fortune favored Queenie that day, for, as the con- 
gregation left the church, Sir Walter said to his little 
daughter, — 

“Don’t be in a hurry; I want to speak to the 
Squire.” 

Queenie was delighted, and eagerly waited by the 
little gate till the Squire should appear. He was a 
little time in coming, as several of the poor people 
had something they wished to say to him. 

But he came at length, the child close at his side, 
at whom Sir Walter cast one curious glance, and then 
drew the Squire a little on one side in order to talk 
at his ease. 

The two children were thus left confronting each 
other. Queenie of course spoke first. 

“What is your name, little boy?” she asked, 
graciously. 

“They call me Bertie here,” he answered, gently, 
lifting his cap when the little strange lady spoke tp 


QUEENIE’S HOME. 


61 


liim in a way that raised him many steps higher in 
Queenie’s- opinion, 

“‘Well, they call me Queenie,” responded she, 
laughing, “though it isn’t my name, so we’re some- 
thing like one another, you see. How old are you?” 

He shook his head. 

“I don’t know. Mrs. Pritchard and the tailor said 
I must be about seven or eight.” % 

“ I thought so !” cried Queenie, quickly ; “ I always 
guess people’s ages nearly right. I shall be ten 
pretty soon. We live in the nearest house to you — 
next door, we should say in London ; but people 
don’t talk like that here.” 

Bertie looked up with a little start. 

“ Next door,” he said, quickly, and then stopped short. 

“What about next door?” asked Queenie. 

“ I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I thought 
I did ; but I didn’t.” 

“I want us to be friends,” said Queenie; “would 
you like to be?” 

“If grandpapa likes,” answered Bertie, without the 
animation Queenie looked for. 

Yet he spoke so gently that she could not be 
offended, and the wistful look in his eyes touched 
her, she could not tell why. 


62 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Why do you call him grandpapa?” she asked, 
with interest. “Do you mean the Squire?” 

“Yes,” answered Bertie. “He lets me call him 
that. It seems more natural, somehow.” 

Queenie looked at him curiously. 

“You must feel very funny, don’t you? I should 
worry all day to remember things.” 

Bertie’s gyes were troubled and sad. 

“That does no good, it only makes my head ache; 
but I like being in church.” 

Queenie was aware that her father was shaking 
hands with the Squire. A sudden impulse came 
over her to speak whilst she had the chance. 

“I want us to be friends,” she said again. “Do 
you know the big oak tree down by the sunk fence 
at the end of the Squire’s park, near the lodge?” 

Bertie thought a little. 

“I think I do.” 

“If you’ll come out there to-morrow afternoon, I’ll 
come too. One of us can climb over, and we’ll play 
together. Don’t forget, and do come.” 

Bertie had no time to reply. A quick smile passed 
between the children as they parted to go their several 
ways. 


CHAPTER V. 


SUNDAY. 

T was very easy to make it a rule that 
Bertie should not leave his nurseries 
without permission, except at stated 
hours ; but it was a rule that appeared 
impossible to enforce. 

It was not that he was defiant, or passionate, or 
even, as it seemed, wilfully disobedient; but never- 
theless he was perpetually slipping away at odd mo- 
ments to the library window-seat, where he would 
remain quietly perched up, gazing intently over the 
stretch of level country and well-timbered park, and 
when discovered and' reproved he would glance up 
with troubled eyes into the grave face of his nurse, 
and say in faltering tones that he did not mean to be 
naughty, but he liked being there. 



*4 


Drifted ashore. 


It seemed, indeed, as if some power more Strong 
than that of mere liking drew him to that spot. It 
almost appeared that an instinct which he could not 
resist drove him to the place, and when Dr. Lighton 
heard of it, he advised that he should be given way 
to in this matter. 

“ It is evidently some train of association that at- 
tracts him — some link with the past that may in time 
prove of great value. I should let him alone, Squire, 
unless he is in your way. He may find out what we 
want to know, if he is allowed undisturbed leisure for 
thought in the spot of his own choosing.” 

“ He does not disturb me,” answered the Squire. 
‘‘He is the quietest child in the world. He never 
talks, and he hardly moves. He is welcome to stay, 
if you think it will be productive of any good re- 
sults.” 

“Well, I hope it may, that is all I can say. The 
case is an odd one, and perplexes me, I own, but the 
experiment is worth trying.” 

So the order was issued, and Mrs. Pritchard found 
her duties considerably lightened, for Bertie troubled 
her with little of his society, and was nearly always 
to be found perched silently upon the library window- 
seat, sometimes with a book on his knees, but more 


Sunday. 


<55 

^ften nhtefefy resting his chin on his hand and gazing 
intently either at the Squire in his leathef-covercd 
chair before the writing-table, or else out of the 
window. 

His daily walk was always the same' — to visit DaVicf 
and the sandhills by the sea, whilst his days were 
spent in quiet contentment in the old library. It was 
an odd life for a little child to lead, as odd as the 
whole strange chain of circumstances that had led 
him to this new home. 

Things were in this state by the time Sunday came 
round ; and the brief interview with Queenie in the 
churchyard was the first incident that had occurred 
to rouse the child out of the dreamy state in which 
he had been sunk ever since his return to conscious 
life. 

His eyes were brighter as he walked home beside 
the Squire, and he looked about him with more of 
natural, childish interest than he had ever evinced 
before. 

When they stood together in the hall, the child 
looked up in the Squire’s face with the first smile 
that had been seen as yet in those wistful dark eyes. 

“ May I have my dinner down-stairs to-day with 
you?” he asked. “Because it’s Sunday, you know.” 


66 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


The Squire looked meditatively into the child’s 
face, and asked in his turn, — 

“Why should I be more troubled with you on a 
Sunday than on any other day?” 

Bertie smiled once more quite fearlessly. It had 
been observed from the very first that the child had 
never appeared in the least afraid of the Squire, whose 
rather rough manner and sharp way of speaking often 
made him appear a formidable being to those who 
did not understand his truer nature. 

“I won’t be any trouble,” answered Bertie, in his 
frank and serious way, “but I should like to come. 
Please will you let me?” 

“Very well, I will allow it to-day, since your heart 
seems set upon it; but you must not take it as a 
precedent.” 

“Oh no, of course not,” answered Bertie; “it’s 
only on Sundays that I want to stay with you for 
dinner.” 

And then he mounted the stairs, to tell Mrs Prit- 
chard of the arrangement he had just made. 

The housekeeper was less surprised than she would 
have been four days ago. She had observed how 
readily the child’s presence was tolerated in the 
library, and she began to indugle the secret hope that 


SUNDAY. 


67 


the companionship of the little boy might beguile the 
Squire out of his long-established habits of sorrowful 
reserve and gloom. 

She brushed his short, dark, curly head till it shone 
in the sunlight, washed his face and hands, and tied 
afresh the little crimson bow that contrasted well with 
the black of his velvet jacket. The new brightness 
that had not yet left his face gave to it quite a new 
expression, and there was in the child’s whole bearing 
a sort of courteous yet commanding air that had not 
been observable before. He seemed suddenly to 
take it for granted that he belonged to the house, and 
had a certain right to a voice in its affairs. 

He walked boldly down-stairs as soon as he was 
released from Mrs. Pritchard’s hands, and made his 
way into the dining-room, where the butler was laying 
the table. 

The butler was no other than Mrs. Pritchard’s 
husband, and shared her compassionate interest in 
the little waif who had been thrown upon their 
hands. He smiled as the child approached, and 
said, — 

“ So you will take your dinner with the Squire to- 
day, Master Bertie?” 

“ Yes ; and please don’t put me at the side of the 


68 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


table, Pritchard. I should prefer to sit opposite to 
him here at the end.” 

Pritchard was by no means certain how the Squire 
would like this arrangement. It was seldom indeed 
in the years that had passed since her death that his 
wife’s vacant place had been occupied by any one 
else ; but it is a weakness with elderly people, and 
especially with kind old servants, to give way to 
the fancies of a child, and Pritchard did as Bertie 
directed, and laid the two covers, one at the foot 
and the other at the head of the long table that 
seemed meant for a merry family party. 

Bertie was standing gravely by his chair when the 
Squire came in and the latter cast a keen glance 
upon the little figure outlined against the sunny 
window behind. 

“Shall I say grace?” asked the child, with the 
composure of manner that showed this to have been 
an old habit in the forgotten life of past days. He 
folded his hands and repeated a brief formula, and 
then he took his seat at the table and arranged his 
napkin with an air of perfect familiarity with the 
situation. 

The Squire watched him with more interest than 
he had done before. Certainly there was something 


SUNDAY. 


6 9 


rather attractive in this little nameless boy who knew 
nothing about himself, yet betrayed his gentle birth 
and breeding in each unconscious word and movement. 

“Grandpapa,” said Bertie, looking across the table, 
“who is the pretty little girl who sat opposite in 
church, and talked to me afterwards?” 

“That is little Miss Arbuthnot. She lives in the 
big white house next to ours.” 

“Yes, I know; she told me so. She asked if I 
would play with her sometimes. May I?” 

The Squire smiled a little. 

“ Oh dear, yes ! as far as I am concerned you 
may; I have not the least objection for you to play 
with her. Whether she will be allowed to play with 
you is quite another matter.” 

Bertie made no response. He was not quite sure 
that he understood the drift of this remark, and so 
he took refuge in silence. 

After dinner he asked leave to go out alone. He 
wanted to go and see David, but he did not wish to 
disturb Mrs. Pritchard. 

“You see she will like to have a quiet nap on 
Sunday afternoon,” he concluded, gravely, as if well 
acquainted with the habits of the elderly housekeeper. 

The Squire’s eyes twinkled a little. 


70 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Who told you that, young man?” 

Bertie looked a little perplexed. 

“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I seemed 
to know it.” 

“Well, I don’t suppose you are far wrong. Yes, 
you may run along alone ; you’re too big a boy to 
have a nurse always dangling after you. Don’t 
wander too far and lose yourself; but you may go 
and see David by yourself whenever you like.” 

“Oh, thank you!” answered Bertie, eagerly; and 
he ran off to fetch his cap, much elated by this per- 
mission. Certainly he was beginning to awake to 
life in a remarkable way. 

It was a mild and sunny day out of doors. The air 
was still and sweet, and the scent of spring was every- 
where, as well as its signs and sounds. Primroses 
and anemones made a starry carpet beneath the great 
oak and beech trees of the level park. The buds 
were swelling visibly overhead, and the sycamores 
and horse-chestnuts had already shaken out some 
little tufts of delicate green. The birds sang over- 
head as they only sing in the sweet spring-time, and 
Bertie’s eyes grew dazzled with trying to follow the 
flight of the soaring larks, who rained down upon 
him the liquid melody of their joyous songs. 


SUNDAY. 


71 


Flat and bare as was the country round, the Squire’s 
park was well timbered, and the trees were tall and 
old and grand. 

His ancestors had laid out this place hundreds of 
years ago, had planted trees when they built the 
house, and had cared for the one as much as the 
other. The consequence was that the grounds of 
Arlingham Manor House looked like an oasis of 
green woodland amid the flat monotony of the fen 
country, and gave an air of picturesque well-being to 
the estate which it could not otherwise have possessed. 

Bertie looked round him as he walked down the 
wide carriage road with a newly awakened interest 
in his surroundings. The painful confusion of his 
mind had given place to something of natural and 
healthy curiosity and pleasure. There was still a 
sorrowful consciousness of loss in the child’s head 
and heart, a sense as If a black curtain had been 
suddenly let down across his life and had shut him 
off from the light and warmth he dimly knew to be 
behind ; but he had begun to turn his thoughts away 
from the blank vacancy behind, and to look out with 
a certain dawning hopefulness into the new life that 
was opening out before him. 

Bertie could not have put the sensation into words, 


72 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


but what was happening to him was simply this. 
The faint recollections of a forgotten past that had 
wearied and confused his brain during the first days of 
his return to consciousness were fading away in the 
stronger light of an actual, tangible present, and, 
save in certain places and under certain conditions, 
the painful sense of bewildered perplexity was grad- 
ually giving way to a more healthy frame of mind. 

The park, with its voiceless language of coming 
spring, awoke no associations within the child’s 
breast. He walked on quietly, enjoying it all very 
much, but haunted by no illusive visions that refused 
to be defined ; troubled by nothing worse than a sort 
of anxiety lest Queenie, the pretty little girl whose 
name Mrs. Pritchard had told him, should not be 
able to keep the appointment she had made for the 
following afternoon. 

But he had soon left the park behind, and came 
out upon the low sandhills that stretched away for at 
least a quarter of a mile towards the margin of the 
sea. The sun shone very bright and warm here; 
the soft sand crumbled beneath his feet; and the 
sea-gulls walked tamely about, and looked at him 
with a sort of impudent assurance before they took 
wing. Bertie was fo.nd of this spot; he could not 


SUNDAY. 


73 


have said why, for something in its level desolation 
always made him a little sad ; yet the sight of the 
boundless waste of heaving water and the arid 
stretches of pale sand had an odd fascination for 
him, and he would have felt sorrowful had a day 
passed without his visiting at least once the scene 
that exercised a powerful sway over his imagination. 

As he wandered down towards the margin of the 
sea, a little black figure jumped up from a recumbent 
position upon the sand, and David and Bertie stood 
face to face. 

They looked very different indeed now, the two 
children who had once been almost like little brothers 
for a few brief days of their life: David, with his 
pale blue eyes, straw-colored hair, indeterminate face, 
and coarse clothing, and Bertie, dark -eyed, dark- 
haired, clad ' in velvet, and with that nameless air 
about him that bespoke birth and breeding as no 
costliness of apparel could do. The boy’s face was 
aglow with intelligence and eager welcome, and its 
expression was so utterly different, in its refinement 
and sweetness, from the awkward, clumsy pleasure 
painted upon that of the fisherman’s boy, that it was 
no great wonder, perhaps, if David himself had SP.me 
dim perception of if. 


74 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


He stopped short and gazed at Bertie for a full 
minute in silence, and then said, heaving a great 
sigh,— 

“Eh, but thee is so beautiful ! I do love thee !” 

Bertie smiled and took both of David's hands 
in his. 

“I love you too,” he answered. “What are you 
doing, David?” 

“ I be learning my Sunday lesson. I goes to school 
mornings before church ; but I don’t go afternoons. 
I come out here and learns my lesson. Does any- 
body give thee Sunday lessons to learn?” 

Bertie’s hand went up for a moment to his head. 

“Not here,” he answered, after a moment’s hesi- 
tation. “I should like to learn yours with you, 
David.” 

The fisher lad’s face brightened. 

“ Would ’ee now? Eh, but that’s prime ! I’ll learn 
un twice as fast with thee.” 

They sat down together upon the sand and laid 
their arms over each other’s shoulders. David pro- 
duced a card upon which the words of his lesson 
were printed in large type : 

“ I will be with thee : I will not fail thee, nor for- 
sake thee. Be strong and of good courage ; be not 


SUNDAY. 


75 


afraid, neither be thou dismayed : for the Lord thy 
God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” 

Together the children read the words, and repeated 
them again and again until they were quite familiar. 
David had almost mastered them before, and Bertie 
had no trouble in impressing them upon his memory ; 
but after this was done, and David considered the 
matter at an end, his little companion looked straight 
at him and asked, — 

‘‘What does it all mean, David?” 

David stared hard for a few seconds at his ques- 
tioner, and said, slowly, — 

“Teacher said as it was what God said to Joshua 
after Moses had gone and died, you know.” 

Bertie’s chin rested meditatively in his hand, his 
eyes were fixed upon the shining sea. 

“Did He say it only to Joshua?” he asked, with a 
certain wistfulness in face and voice. 

David’s brow drew itself into perplexed wrinkles. 

“Teacher said as He says it to everybody; but I 
don’t understand about that. Maybe you do.” 

Bertie’s face brightened. 

“That’s just what I wanted to know. You’re sure 
she said so?” 

“Certain sure I be,” answered David, gravely. 


;6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“She said as God loved us all alike, and wouldn’t 
forsake none of us any more than Joshua. Only 
we’ve got to trust Him, you know, like Joshua did.” 

Bertie’s face was very thoughtful. 

“ It seems as if He’d forsaken me,” said the child, 
dreamily. “It seems as if I’d forgotten everybody, 
and everybody had forgotten me.” 

David looked perplexed and distressed for a mo- 
ment, and then his brightest smile shone over his 
face. 

“I don’t believe God’s forgot thee after all,” he 
said. “ I don’t believe He ever would.” 

Bertie’s face was very grave. He was not equally 
sure of this. 

“I’ll tell thee what to do,” cried David, with a 
sudden flash of inspiration. “Thee’d best tell God 
all about it, and ask Him to remember thee again, 
if He’s forgot. I’m main sure He would then. He 
couldn’t choose but love thee!' 

“I wonder if He’d listen,” said Bertie, slowly. 

“Teacher says He will,” answered David, with 
modest confidence. “She says as He’ll hear the 
likes of us, so I know He’ll hear thee.” 

Bertie looked down at the words upon the card, 
and repeated them aloud* 


SUNDAY. 


77 


“I’ve got to be strong and of good courage,” he 
said. “Well, I’ll try. I’d like to be that — boys 
ought to be brave and strong. I’ll ask God to help 
me, and not to forget me much longer” — the child’s 
hand was pressed to his head now, and he added, 
with a strange glance at his companion, — “only we 
must always say, ‘ Thy will be done,’ too.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE FIRST INTERVIEW. 

O you have come at last, have you ?” said 
Queenie, tossing her curly head and 
speaking with a sort of disdainful pride. 
“I thought you had most likely forgotten 
all about it.” 

Queenie had been waiting for some time by the* 
old oak tree near to the sunk fence, and during that 
time she had mounted her “high horse,” and was 
by no means disposed at once to quit her exalted 
position. A very imperious and exacting young lady 
could little Miss Arbuthnot show herself when she 
had a mind to do so. 

“You didn’t say any particular time, you know,” 
answered Bertie, gently. 

“ I said afternoon,” returned Queenie, with dignity. 



THE FIRST INTERVIEW. 


79 


“ That means after dinner, of course. I came as soon 
as I could get out after dinner, and if you had been 
what people say you are, you would have done the 
same.” 

“What do people say I am?” asked Bertie. 

“They say you are a gentleman,” answered 
Queenie; “but I don’t feel so sure about it. Do 
you think you are?” 

Bertie shook his head. 

“ Oh no ! I’m only a little boy.” 

“ That doesn’t make any difference,” cried Queenie, 
impatiently. “What a stupid little boy you must be ! 
I’m only a little girl ; but then I’m a lady too, as you 
can see for yourself.” 

Bertie’s eyes opened wide. 

“Are you?” he questioned, innocently. “I don’t 
think I should have known.” 

Queenie drew herself up for a moment, as if she 
were going to walk away in a pet ; but, as Bertie did 
not in the least understand his own enormities and 
showed no disposition to follow and humble himself, 
she stopped short and began to laugh instead. 

Bertie understood that sort of thing, and he joined 
in the laugh, without quite knowing why. 

“You’re such a funny little boy,” said Queenie. 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


80 

M You’re not a bit like my brothers; but I like you. 

I think we shall be friends, don’t you?” 

“I should like it,” answered Bertie; “only — ” 

“Well? Only what?” 

“Only the Squire didn’t think you’d be allowed to 
play with me.” 

“Did he say so? When?” 

“ At dinner-time yesterday, when I asked if I might 
play with you. He said I might; but he didn’t think 
you’d be let to play with me.” 

Queenie laughed and tossed her head. 

“ I think the Squire is a very clever old man ; but 
you see I’m cleverer still.” 

“How?” 

“Why, because I do things without asking leave. 
It saves such a lot of trouble.” 

Bertie looked rather scandalized. 

“ Do you mean you wouldn’t be allowed to play 
with me if people knew about it?” 

“ Papa wouldn’t mind,” answered Queenie, quickly ; 
“ he lets me do as I like. It’s only mamma who is 
so tiresome. Mamma wanted me never to go out 
alone, even in the garden, but papa said it was all 
nonsense, and that I might. I love papa twice as 
much as mamma. He’s just given me a pony to ride 


THE ElRSf INTERVIEW. 


8i 

— such a pretty little pony, brown, with black legs ! 
Would you like to come and see him?” 

Bertie’s eyes were shining with a strange light. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I should like it very much. 
I think — I must have had a pony — once.” 

“Did you?” questioned Queenie, eagerly. “Oh, 
if you can ride, we can go out together sometimes. 
I’ll get papa to say we may. Now come and see my 
pony. Mamma is out, and papa won’t mind a bit if 
he does see you.” 

Queenie had climbed the sunk fence once before 
Bertie had joined her, and had put the great trunk 
of the oak tree between herself and the chance of 
pursuit by nurse or any other attendant; but now 
she was eager to retrace her steps, and to display to 
her new companion the possessions of which she was 
most proud. 

Bertie followed her willingly enough. He felt sure, 
after what the Squire had said, that he would not 
object, and as for Queenie’s odd statements regarding 
her relations with her parents, the little boy did not 
profess to understand them, nor did he, at the present 
stage of their acquaintance, feel called upon to inter- 
fere or criticise. Queenie’s fearless gaiety of manner 
exercised a certain fascination upon him, and he was 


82 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


quite ready to let her take the lead, whilst he humbly 
followed in her wake. 

They climbed the sunk fence together, and then 
Queenie took his hand protectingly and led him up 
the meadow towards the back of the house. 

“We will go round by the farm first,” said Queenie. 
“ I will show you my chickens.” 

The farmyard was certainly an attractive spot, and 
the little mistress was evidently a great favorite with 
all the men employed there. Hard, stolid faces 
smiled kindly upon the two children, and rough 
hands were eager and willing to do their bidding, 
whatever it might be. 

Queenie talked to the laborers with her little air of 
stately affability that impressed Bertie very much. 
He was inclined to be shy and silent himself; but 
the little girl did not know what shyness meant, and 
chattered away to him and to every one who came 
near them in a way that evidently made her an im- 
mense favorite. 

The chickens were very sweet indeed, little fluffy 
balls of yellow and black. Bertie was delighted with 
them, and the children spent a good half-hour in the 
poultry yard, feeding the fowls and laughing at their 
funny ways. 


THE FIRST INTERVIEW. 


83 


“Til give you some chickens if you like, when 
they’re big enough to leave the hen,” said Queenie, 
who loved to patronize. 

“ I think the Squire has plenty of his own, thank 
you,” answered Bertie. “ I don’t know if he’d care 
for me to have any more.” 

‘‘Do you like his yard as well as ours?” asked 
Queenie, rather jealously. 

“ I don’t know. I’ve never been there.” 

“Never been ! Why not?” 

“ I don’t know. I never thought of it. I’m not 
sure that he’d like me to go.” 

“You could go when he was out.” 

But Bertie shook his head resolutely. 

“Why not, pray? It would do no harm.” 

“I shouldn’t like to go if he hadn’t given me 
leave,” answered Bertie. 

Queenie tossed her head. 

“Who taught you to be so strait-laced as all that? 
Mrs. Pritchard?” 

“No,” answered Bertie, slowly; “Mrs. Pritchard 
never said anything about it.” 

Queenie looked at him, and he looked at her, his 
eyes dreamy and wistful. 

“I think you must have been very strictly brought 


84 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


up,” she said, gravely. “That sort of thing would 
not suit me. You would have much more spirit if 
you were less particular. You should see my brothers. 
They don’t care about anything.” 

Bertie did not seem convinced by this argument, 
but he held his peace, as he always did when not 
quite sure of his ground. Queenie thought she had 
won a victory, and said graciously, — 

“Now we will come and see my pony.” 

When Bertie found himself in the stable, he 
seemed more at' home than he had done in the 
farmyard. He went boldly up to the pony in his 
box, and stroked and caressed him as if he had 
known what it was to be on friendly terms with a 
horse before. The creature responded to his ad- 
vances and Queenie looked on with a gracious air of 
approval. 

“Why, here is papa!” she cried, suddenly; and 
Bertie turned round in time to see the gentleman who 
had stopped the Squire on Sunday entering by the 
stable door. 

“Hullo, Queenie! what are you doing here?” 
was the quick inquiry; “and what would mamma 
say?” 

“ I am showing Bertie my pony,” answered Queenie, 


THE FIRST INTERVIEW. 


85 


running up and taking her father’s hand coaxingly. 
“ I didn’t come alone. I had Bertie with me. You 
know who Bertie is, don’t you, papa? The little boy 
who lives with the Squire now.” 

Of course Sir Walter had heard the romantic story, 
and he looked at the child with kindly interest. 
Bertie took off his cap and gave his hand to the 
baronet with the gentle courtesy characteristic of 
him. 

“Well, my little lad, and how do you like your 
new home?” he asked. 

Bertie’s eyes grew vaguely sorrowful. 

“ Everybody is very kind,” he said ; adding after 
a short pause, and rather inconsequently, “Your little 
girl has been showing me her chickens and her 
pony.” 

“That is right, that is right; and have you enjoyed 
yourself ?” 

“Yes, thank you, sir. I like horses. I think I 
used to ride on one once.” 

That look that always shone in the child’s eyes 
when he spoke or thought of the vanished past 
touched the baronet’s kind heart. 

“Well, well, you will soon know all about it, no 
doubt; and meantime, you must come and talk to 


86 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


my little girl as often as you can, and play together 
and enjoy yourselves. Now run off, Queenie, and 
take your little friend with you. You can ask 
Bennet if he has any strawberries to spare for you. 
Keep in the garden, children. You know, Queenie, 
mamma does not like your being in the yard or the 
stable.” 

Queenie knew this quite well ; but she did not care 
always to remember such prohibitions, and she knew 
that her father never enforced discipline with any 
great authority. 

She looked at him with a saucy laugh. 

“ Mamma would like me to live in a glass case, 
wrapped up in cotton wool ; but I don’t think she’d 
keep me there long.” 

Sir Walter laughed too. 

“Now run away, puss, and take Bertie with you; 
and try to keep out of mischief for one day of your 
life, if you can.” 

Queenie stood on tiptoe to make her father bend 
down whilst she whispered in his ear, — 

“And you’ll make mamma let Bertie come here 
often? He’s a nice little boy, and has nobody to 
play with ; and it must be so dull for him living all 
alone with the Squire.” 


THE FIRST INTERVIEW. 87 

Sir Walter smiled at his little daughter’s way of 
pleading her cause. 

“It isn’t that you want a playfellow yourself, I 
suppose?” he questioned. “It’s all for Bertie’s 
sake, of course. Well, well, I’ll see about it. 
Yes, certainly, I have no objection to your playing 
together.” 

So Queenie led Bertie away in triumph, saying as 
she did so, — 

“ There ! I knew papa would let us be friends. 
Now you will have somebody to talk to when you 
are dull.” 

If Miss Queenie had expected Bertie to be very 
much impressed by this favor, she was certainly 
doomed to be disappointed. 

“ I have somebody to talk to now,” he answered. 

“Yes, but not anybody who is any fun,” an- 
swered Queenie, quickly. “Grown-up people are 
so dull.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of anybody grown up.” 

“Who were you thinking of then?” asked the little 
girl, regardless of grammar. 

“I was thinking of David,” answered Bertie. “I 
go to see him every day.” 

Queenie drew up her head in a very lofty way. 


88 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“David !” she repeated, superciliously; “and pray 
who may David be?” 

“ He is the fisherman’s boy,” answered Bertie, 
simply. “ He lives in that little cottage on the 
sandhills down by the sea. I lived there a few days 
before the Squire took me. David was very kind to 
me then; and I am very fond of him.” 

Queenie’s head was held up very high. 

“Very fond of a fisher lad!” she repeated, very 
slowly and clearly, as if such an idea as that required 
careful investigation. “Well, perhaps in that case 
you had better go to your dear David. You will 
find him much more entertaining than me.” 

“No,” answered Bertie, with great gravity; “he 
isn’t so amusing; but I think he is a good boy. He 
cares about being good much more than you do.” 

Queenie turned round upon Bertie with an air of 
outraged pride and with eyes that flashed angrily. 
She pointed imperiously towards the boundary fence 
that divided the Squire’s property from her father’s. 

“ If you are going to compare me to your precious 
David, you need not trouble to come here again. Go 
to your dear fisher people, since you are so fond of 
them. It is very plain you are not yet to be my 
friend.” 


THE FIRST INTERVIEW. 


89 


And Queenie marched away with her head held 
very high in the air, and Bertie, after gazing after 
her very much astonished for some minutes, quietly 
turned away and wandered home, not at all disturbed 
by the outbreak, only regarding it as a new develop- 
ment of the odd disposition of his little new friend. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE FUGITIVE. 

UEENIE was very much surprised when 
she found that Bertie had taken her at 
her word, and had not tried to follow 
her or coax her out of her fit of temper. 
As soon as her pride would allow her, she turned to 
look back, and saw Bertie quietly climbing the fence 
and pursuing his way home again, without a single 
lingering backward glance at his offended companion. 

Queenie was so much astonished by this unex- 
pected display of spirit, that she stood quite still for 
several minutes, and then suddenly began to laugh. 
It occurred to her that Bertie was only doing exactly 
what she would have done in his place, and she was 
sensible enough as well as generous enough to see 
that she could not reasonably take offence at conduct 
so very like her own. 



THE FUGITIVE. 


91 


“ After all, it was my fault,” she said to herself. 
“I told him to go, which wasn’t quite polite, as he 
was my guest. I hope papa will not come after me 
and ask where he is. He would not like me to be 
rude. Bertie was rude too ; he had no business to 

speak of me and David as if we were anything to do 

9 

with one another— and to call him gooder than me ! ” 
Queenie often became ungrammatical when she was 
put out. “I’ll soon show him that I’m not going to 
put up with that sort of thing.” The little girl tossed 
her curly head, and her face assumed its expression 
of greatest dignity, which was, however, soon replaced 
by a look of regret and sorrow. “But I wish he had 
not gone, all the same. I do like having a boy to 
play with, and he was a nice little boy, I think, 
although he’s not a bit like any one I’ve ever seen 
before.” 

Queenie pursued her way to the house in rather a 
melancholy mood, feeling as if a promising beginning 
to friendship had suddenly been nipped in the bud. 
She was afraid to stay in the garden, lest her father 
should see her and ask what had become of Bertie, 
so she wandered rather aimlessly into the house and 
up the staircase to the corridor where the nurseries 
were situated. These were shut off from the rest of 


92 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


the house by a red baize door, and as Queenie heard 
this swing to behind her this afternoon, and saw the 
row of doors belonging to the “boys’ rooms,” which 
were never banged now, and only shut in cold empti- 
ness and vacancy, she said once more softly to her- 
self, — 

*“I do hate term-time. It is quite horrid when all 
the boys are away.” 

Then Queenie stopped short suddenly, for she saw 
something that puzzled, and for a moment rather 
startled her. 

The door of one of these empty rooms moved, and 
opened quite slowly a very little way. The sun was 
shining upon the panels from the window at the end 
of the passage, otherwise her attention might hardly 
have been attracted by anything so slight as the 
movement of the door ; but as it was she stood quite 
still, gazing with all her eyes, and wondering in a 
half-fearful fashion what could have opened it. 

The next thing she saw was an eye cautiously 
applied to the chink of the door. She was quite 
certain that it was an eye, although the chink was so 
narrow that she could see nothing else, and only a 
glimpse of the eye. 

Queenie was not a timid child. She did not 


THE FUGITIVE. 


93 


shriek or rush screaming away ; but she was a little 
afraid, for she could not imagine who could be hid- 
ing in the empty room, and she did not much think 
that her nurse was up-stairs. 

But as she stood there quite still, wondering 
what she should do, a head was suddenly popped 
round the door, a smothered, laughing voice cried, 
“Queenie!” in a sort of whisper, and the head was 
instantly withdrawn. Queenie uttered a little shriek 
of ecstasy, and made a dash at the door. 

“Phil !” she cried, with breathless eagerness. 

The closed door opened suddenly, she was pulled 
in with unceremonious haste, and the door was closed 
and bolted behind them in a moment of time. 

Queenie was so bewildered by this mysterious 
appearance of her favorite brother, that she was 
absolutely tongue-tied. She could only gasp out, — 
“ Phil'!” 

And the curly-headed lad, his eyes full of laughter 
and his face brimming over with fun, caught his little 
sister round the waist, and executed the wildest of 
war-dances without speaking a single word. 

At last, when both were fairly exhausted, he flung 
himself upon his bed and burst into a fit of tumultu- 
ous yet noiseless laughter. 


94 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Queenie’s eyes were quite round with astonishment. 
She was too much perplexed and surprised to join in 
her brother’s mirth. 

“Phil,” she said at last, in her little imperious way, 
“do tell me what it is. I don’t understand. Why 
have you come home now?” 

The boy sat up on his bed and laid his finger on 
his lips. His eyes were sparkling with mischief, yet 
his face wore a look of preternatural gravity. 

“Hush !” he said, in a tragic whisper; “if any one 
hears us I am lost!” 

“What do you mean, Phil?” 

Queenie, however, lowered her voice to a whisper. 
If she did not believe in danger, at least she scented 
mischief, and her eyes began to shine like Phil’s with 
the anticipation of coming fun. 

“Is anybody about?” asked Phil, cautiously. 

“I don’t know. Shall I go and see?” 

“Yes, do; and bring me something to eat if you 
can. I’m half famished.” 

Queenie asked no more questions for the moment ; 
but, after listening intently at the door, to make sure 
there was nobody outside, she glided out into the 
corridor and dashed across to the nursery. Nobody 
was there. She had announced her intention of 


THE FUGITIVE. 


95 


spending the afternoon in the garden, so that her 
nurse had left her usual domain and had gone else- 
where. She might, of course, be back at any mo- 
ment, as the child well knew, and she did not waste 
a moment in the fulfilment of her task. 

Queenie was quite the spoiled darling of the house- 
hold, and all the servants vied with each other to do 
her pleasure, and give her everything they thought 
she could want. The cook made her cakes of every 
description, of which she had quite a collection in the 
nursery cupboard ; the butler gave her more figs and 
plums, almonds and raisins and crystallized fruits than 
she could possibly consume ; and, as a natural con- 
sequence, Queenie could provide a feast for herself 
or anybody else at a moment’s notice, and in less 
time than it has taken to explain all this she had filled 
a little basket with all sorts of good things, and had 
rushed back to Phil as silently and swiftly as a bird. 

The schoolboy’s eye sparkled as the contents of the 
basket were emptied upon the bed. He snatched up 
the most substantial of the cakes and set to work 
upon it with ravenous eagerness. 

Queenie saw at a glance that it would be hopeless 
to expect him to speak until he had satisfied his hun- 
ger. She sat down upon the bed also, nibbled at a 


9 6 


DRIFTED ashore. 


date, and tried to hazard a guess .as to what could 
possibly have happened. 

Phil was the youngest of the boys, and had not yet 
gone to Eton, being still at a preparatory school. 
He was nearly thirteen, and in September he was to 
join his brothers, and become a public schoolboy, 
which was the summit of his present ambition ; this 
therefore was his last term at Dr. Steele’s school, where 
all the Arbuthnot boys had received their early edu- 
cation ; and what made him suddenly turn up at 
home, when the first month of term-time had not 
expired, was more than his little sister could imagine. 
She knew he always professed to hate Dr. Steele’s 
establishment; but by his own account he always 
managed to have plenty of fun there. 

Phil was not long in making away with all the 
good things his sister had brought him. When the 
last monthful had been consumed, he heaved a sigh 
and said, — 

“Ah, now I feel rather better; but Pve had no 
dinner, and hardly any breakfast. Queenie, you’ll 
have to hide me somewhere for a few days, and feed 
me secretly, like people used to do in the olden times. 
Pm a fugitive, you know, in peril of my life.” 

Queenie’s eyes dilated slowly. 


THE FUGITIVE. 97 

“Oh, Phil!” she said, in awestruck tones; “what 
have you done?” 

“I’ve run away,” he answered, the gravity of his 
face belied by the mirthful twinkle of his eye, — “ I’ve 
run away, Queenie, to save Dr. Steele the pain and 
trouble of sending me away.” 

“Oh!” breathed Queenie, her mouth growing as 
round as her eyes as she began to understand a little. 
She had often heard it said that Phil would undoubt- 
edly be expelled some day, if he could not conquer 
his predilection for playing pranks, and she had 
secretly wished that he might. “ So you have been 
getting into a row, have you, Phil?” 

She spoke in an eager whisper, for she delighted 
in Phil’s natural bias towards mischief and bravado. 
She never felt more entirely proud of her brother 
than when listening to accounts of his reckless dis- 
regard for rules and his calm defiance when detected. 
I am afraid Queenie is not the only little girl in ex- 
istence who shares in this admiration for lawlessness 
and mischief ; and perhaps those of us who have not 
grown too old to remember how we felt when we 
were young may understand this naughty feeling, 
and perhaps sympathize a little with it. After all, if 
bafs never got into mischief, the nursery would be a 


98 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


duller place than it is ; and so long as they can be 
manly and truthful and honest with it all, it is not so 
very hard to forgive a little “ kicking over the traces,” 
which is common and natural to two-legged as well 
as four-footed creatures, when first they begin to run 
in harness. As a rule, they do no great harm, and 
steady down to the collar in due time. 

“Do tell me all about it, Phil,” pleaded Queenie, 
very eagerly. “ Have you got into a very bad row 
this time?” 

Queenie must be forgiven if she used slang words 
now and then. With four brothers to teach her, she 
could hardly have escaped. 

Phil looked at his sister, and winked his eye in a 
very knowing way. 

“I’ve not got into a row at all. I just cut and ran 
before there was time for the explosion. I’m a fugi- 
tive, Queenie ! I’ve run away ! and now you’ve got 
to hide me !” 

“Oh, Phil! Why!” 

The boy showed his white teeth in one of his own 
merriest smiles. 

“ Hush ! that’s part of the plan. I want to give 
them a good scare, and then they’ll be so glad to get 
me safe home they’ll never think of putting me into 


THE FUGITIVE. 


99 


disgrace ; and we’ll just have a jolly summer together, 
Queenie, you and I, until September comes and I go 
to Eton. You’ll help me, won’t you? and then we’ll 
have the best times we ever had in our lives.” 

Queenie’s eyes sparkled. 

“ Oh, Phil, how splendid ! But won’t they send 
you back to Dr. Steele’s?” 

“Not they! Besides, he would not have me at 
any price, the old buffer. He says I’m worse than 
all the rest of the four dozen put together. Oh no, 
trust him ! He’ll not have me back ; and if we only 
manage to give them a scare at this end, I shall be 
received with open arms, and they’ll be so glad to 
get me home safe that they’ll never remember to 
scold.” 

“But what have you done, Phil?” asked Queenie. 
“ I want to know all about it.” 

Phil grinned from ear to ear. 

“ Oh, it was such a lark ! I’d do it again to- 
morrow if I had the chance. I do love to rile old 
Higgins ! You know who old Higgins is, don’t you? 
— the under-master next to Steele himself, — a horrid 
old curmudgeon whom we all detest. Steele is bad 
enough, but Higgins ! — such a name too ! — Higgins ! 
It’s enough to put any fellow’s monkey up to be 


00 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


bullied by a creature with a name like that ! Well, 
this is how it was, you know. Steele had to go away 
for a day or two, and of course Higgins was left boss 
of the place, and began his usual bullying tricks, 
keeping us twice as strict as the Doctor does, and 
giving us twice the punishment we ought to have if 
ever he caught us at anything.” 

“ What a horrid creature ! ” interposed Queenie, with 
sympathetic indignation. 

“ So he is ; but we weren’t going to be done by 
him, you bet. I’m not the fellow to sit quiet and be 
bullied, and there were plenty of fellows ready to join 
with me. You know, on the 1st of May every year, 
there is a big fair at Blexbury, three miles away, and 
of course we’re not allowed to go. It’s long out of 
bounds, and then a fair’s considered an awful bad sort 
of place. I’m sure I don’t know why, for there’s 
nothing but fun, and gingerbread, and merry-go- 
rounds, and shooting-galleries, and things that couldn’t 
hurt* anybody, Anyhow, of course, we weren’t 
allowed to go, and of course lots of us do go every 
year.” 

“Do you?” 

“ Why, to be sure we do ; and this year there were 
to be fireworks in the evening too, and we meant to go 


THE FUGITIVE. 


IOI 


twice, first in the afternoon, and then at night. It 
was a half-holiday, you know, — Saturday, — so noth- 
ing could have been better ; and old Higgins gave 
out after morning school that no boy was to go be- 
yond bounds that day, on pain of — I don’t know 
what — unheard-of penalties.” 

Oueenie drew a long breath. 

“ But you went?” 

“Of course we went — a dozen of us at least, and 
old Higgins too, and we dodged him about up and 
down the fair, and led him such a dance. Oh, didn’t 
he get wild, and didn’t the people laugh at him ! 
And didn’t the little boys throw mud, and the women 
tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, chasing 
about the lads who only wanted to enjoy themselves 
and get a little fun. Some of the fellows kept out of 
sight, but I didn’t care ; I let him see me fast enough, 
and, as he always hated me, he pretended he only 
saw me, and only really tried to catch me.” 

“And did he?” 

Phil laughed uproariously and kicked up his heels 
with joy. 

“Catch me! I should just think he didn’t. I’d 
like to have seen him do it. Everybody was on my 
side. The men hid me in their tents and the women 


102 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


in their stalls, and wouldn’t let him come in at any 
price ; and the menagerie-man — he was a jolly fellow 
— he beckoned me to come up into his circus place, 
and when old Higgins came rushing up after me, he 
just opened the cage of a big monkey, who sprang 
out at old Higgins, whipped off his hat and chawed 
it up, and gave him such a scratch all down his nose ! 
He’ll carry that scratch to the end of time, I know. 
After that he thought he’d had enough, and went 
home without his hat in such a sweet temper. And 
that night we screwed him up in his room, after all 
the servants had gone to bed, and let off fireworks 
under his window.” 

Queenie’s delight knew no bounds. Phil was more 
of a hero than ever. 

“Go on! go on!” she cried. “What happened 
next day?” 

“Next day was yesterday, and Sunday, you know; 
and old Higgins was so used up with rage that he 
could not appear all day. I was ordered to my room ; 
but I said, ‘ In for a penny, in for a pound,’ and went 
a walk instead. I knew it was all up with me by 
that time. The Doctor was coming back on Monday 
morning, — to-day you see, — so I didn’t trouble to 
wait for him, but just bolted before any one was astir. 


THE FUGITIVE. 


103 


I didn’t go to the town or station, where we’re pretty 
well known, but cut across country for ten miles to a 
big junction, where I was not likely to be noticed. 
I’d just money enough for my ticket and some rolls, 
and that’s all I’ve had to eat since morning. You 
must manage to give me a good feed somehow, soon, 
and to look after me for a few days ; for I mean to 
give Higgins and Steele a good fright before I’ve 
done with them.” 

“Did nobody see you get in?” asked Queenie, 
excitedly. 

“No, not a soul. I took good care of that. I 
managed beautifully, for I didn’t mean anybody but 
you to know. You’ll keep the secret, won’t you, 
Queenie? It will be such a lark having the whole 
country raised after me, and me here all the time.” 

Queenie’s eyes sparkled. 

“Like Cassy in ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Oh yes, 
Phil, I’ll hide you if I can ! only — only — won’t papa 
and mamma be frightened too?” 

“Oh no, I don’t think so — not for a day or so. 
They know I can take care of myself well enough. 
I want them to be just frightened enough to be very 
pleased to see me back, and we’ll not let them get 
more frightened than will be just right.” 


104 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Queenie was satisfied with this compromise. She 
was eager to carry out Phil’s scheme, for she had a 
keen love for adventure and romance, and it seemed 
to her a delightfully romantic thing to hide away her 
fugitive brother whilst his cruel and inhuman school- 
masters hunted high and low for him. Her zeal was 
great, and Phil knew he could trust both her courage 
and discretion, and the main difficulty was to know 
how and where to dispose of himself. 

“You had better stop here for to-night,” said 
Queenie, with her little air of command; “nobody 
will come till the housemaid goes round in the morn- 
ing; I don’t know if she comes every day when you 
are all away. There is the wardrobe cupboard you 
could hide in, if you heard anybody coming, but Pll 
take care nobody does to-day. To-morrow morning 
early, I think, you’ll have to get out of the window 
and down by the ivy and hide somewhere in the 
garden till we can settle something. If I were you, 
I’d get over the fence and hide in one of the Squire’s 
shrubberies, and I’ll come to you as soon as ever I 
can.” 

Phil nodded his head approvingly. 

“That’s the sort of thing, Queenie, that’s the sort 
of thing;” and after ten minutes’ animated discussion 


THE FUGITIVE. 


105 

their plans till the morrow were all carefully laid. 
Then Queenie had to effect her escape unseen, for 
nursery tea was imminent; and then there was the 
difficult and delicate task of obtaining some substan- 
tial supplies and conveying them to Phil. Queenie, 
however, proved herself equal to the occasion. She 
wandered innocently down to the housekeeper’s room, 
where she was always welcome, and paid a visit to 
cook in the larder, and admired very much a row of 
meat pies that she had lately taken from the oven. 

As she was wandering about in the aimless way 
that children do when they find themselves amongst 
indulgent old servants, who are pleased to see them 
about their premises, she was aware of a commotion 
in the servants’ hall. 

“ Cook !” cried a voice from thence, — “ only think, 
cook, a telegram has just come from the master to 
say that Master Phil has run away from school, and 
can’t be heard of anywhere !” 

Cook threw up her hands in dismay at the news, 
and hurried away to learn all particulars. Queenie 
was sharp enough to know that for the next few 
minutes all the servants would be congregated together 
to hear the news and discuss it with keen interest and 
wonder. She therefore acted with care and delibera- 


io 6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


tion, took down one savory pie from the shelf, re- 
arranging the rest so that it was not likely to be 
missed, and stole quietly and coolly away with her 
prize, no hurried movement or undue excitement 
hindering her from carrying out her design in the 
best possible way. 

Bread and all other additions were easily obtained 
from the nursery table, and Phil supped sumptuously 
that night. 

The little girl was told nothing about her brother, 
for which she was glad, in case her face might betray 
her; but when she went down to dessert that even- 
ing, she fancied her mother seemed rather nervous 
and put out, and she was a little troubled at first ; 
but as she left the room, she was reassured by hear- 
ing her father say, — 

“ Of course I will go over to-morrow and see about 
it, but you may trust Phil for looking after himself. 
He’ll come to no harm, you may be sure ; he’ll be 
turning up like a bad halfpenny somewhere before 
another day is out. You see if he doesn’t.” 

And Queenie laughed quietly to herself as she ran 
up-stairs to her nursery, very full of importance and 
delight. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 

ERTIE was not at all angry at being or- 
dered home by his imperious little com- 
panion, neither was he indisposed to obey 
the mandate. He liked Queenie, she amused 
and interested him, but he found her a little over- 
whelming, and he was not altogether sorry to quit 
her presence and be alone once more. 

Several new impressions had been made upon him 
during the past hour, and a little of the aching sense 
of bewilderment, now slowly leaving him, had been 
awakened by his visit to the stable and the appear- 
ance of Sir Walter Arbuthnot. He could not tell 
why some things seemed to hurt him in an odd, 
inexplicable fashion, whilst others made no impression 
upon his mind. Yet undoubtedly such was the case, 



io8 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


and, as the dim and undefined sense of familiarity 
was always followed by a sort of reaction of sorrowful 
bewilderment and distress, Bertie was rather glad to 
be left alone to pursue his way unmolested and in 
peace. 

His little face was pale and sad as he paused at 
last beneath a great beech-tree and sat down upon 
its gnarled roots to think. He looked down at the 
primroses growing at his feet, and put out his hand 
as if to pluck them ; but he drew it back again, and 
then instead began stroking their leaves with gentle, 
loving touches. 

“Poor little pretty things!” he said, half aloud; 
“ I won’t take them away ; I’m sure they’ll be happier 
here.” 

Bertie looked up from the flowers to the blue sky 
overhead, and, as he looked, sudden tears glistened 
in his eyes. 

“ I wish I was a primrose, growing in a nice quiet 
place like this. Everybody is fond of flowers ; but 
nobody wants me.” 

The child’s lip quivered. A wave of desolation 
was sweeping over the lonely little heart. With the 
greater clearness of perception that was coming to 
him by degrees, was coming also a clearer under- 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 100 

Standing of the peculiar isolation of his position. 
He had less and less hope of remembering the past 
— its fleeting memories grew rather less than more 
defined, and eluded his grasp with even greater per- 
tinacity than at first. He was not old enough to 
realize to the full the curious position he occupied ; 
but he did begin to understand something of the 
situation, and to feel his loneliness and friendlessness 
with the acute sensibility peculiar to childhood. 

“Nobody wants me,” he said, slowly; “I don’t 
belong to anybody in the world ; I haven’t even got 
a name. The Squire is very kind ; but he doesn’t 
want me. He would rather I was somewhere else.” 

A tear rolled slowly down each of the child’s 
cheeks and fell upon his little thin hands. Bertie 
looked meditatively at them as they sparkled in the 
sunshine, and then he slowly wiped his eyes. 

“ I mustn’t be a baby,” he said, shaking his head. 
“That won’t do any good, and people will think I 
am naughty and ungrateful. I wish I could be happy 
like Queenie; but she has a papa and mamma and a 
home of her own, and I have nobody.” He put his 
hands up to his head again with the old perplexed 
look, but that faded in time, as the blank of the 
present closed him in. 


IO 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“I think I’ll go and see David,” he said, slowly; 
and, rising to his feet, he wandered down to the 
shore. 

David was always more or less on the look-out for 
his beloved companion. His tender admiration for 
Bertie had in no wise diminished ; indeed, it seemed 
rather to increase as time passed by, though he gave 
it little expression. 

He ran up eagerly to meet Bertie as he approached, 
but all he said was, — 

“I do be glad thee’s come.” 

Still these simple words of welcome were sweet to 
Bertie at this minute. 

“David,” he said, as they wandered down to the 
margin of the waves, hand in hand and with slow, 
lingering steps, “I’m afraid He’s forgotten me — I 
am indeed.” 

David’s eyes opened wide. 

“Who?” he asked, briefly. 

“ God,” answered the child, with deep gravity and 
a sort of settled sadness that was not without its 
effect upon his companion. “ I think He must have 
quite forgotten me.” 

“Why?” 

“I feel forgotten,” answered Bertie, and his lip 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


Ill 


quivered. “I feel as if everybody had forgotten me, 
and God too. If He hadn’t, why don’t I remember? 
— He might let me, I think.” 

But Bertie couldn’t get on any further than that, 
and David stood staring over the sea, as if to glean 
inspiration from the ever-changing, tpssing sheet of 
water. 

When his answer came, it was spoken with a sort 
of modest diffidence, as if he hardly knew whether it 
would be accepted as an answer at all. 

“He don’t forget easy, I don’t think, lovy. He 
don’t never forget to stop the sea when he’s come up 
high enough. It don’t matter whether it’s nights or 
days, He’s always watching, and sends it back again. 
If He forgot only once, our cottage would be drownded, 
it would, but He never do. Father’s lived there all 
his life, and his father afore him ; that’s ever so many 
years, and He’s never forgot once all that time. It 
do seem as if forgetting wasn’t much in His way.” 

This was such a very long speech for David to 
make, that when it was done he seemed almost afraid 
of his own boldness ; but Bertie made no answer, only 
stood quite still, looking dreamily out over the water. 

After a long silence David took courage and spoke 
again. 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


1 12 

“I don’t see as He could forget thee,” he said, with 
a certain finality in his tone that was comforting in 
its assurance, — “’specially when thee’s so much down 
by the sea here. He must see thee when He looks 
down to make the waves go back.” 

Bertie looked up into the sunny sky, and a little 
smile broke over his face. 

“ I didn’t think of that,” he said, slowly. “ I wonder 
if He does.” 

“I’m main sure He must,” answered David, with 
an increase of confidence. “ I ain’t no scholar, but I 
know teacher said as them words on my card were 
for everybody as would take un. Teacher knows all 
about it; I know she’d tell you as He doesn’t ever 
forget, and I can kind of understand it too, because 
He don’t forget the sea, you know.” 

Bertie’s face looked a little less sad, though still 
very grave and thoughtful. He seemed to have a 
purpose in his mind, which he proceeded to confide 
to David. 

“When will it be high tide, David?” 

“In half an hour about.” 

“Then I’ll wait for it,” said Bertie. “ Let’s sit down 
just above high-water mark.” 

David obeyed readily, and when they were seated 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


in 

upon the loose dry sand he looked at his little com- 
panion as if awaiting instructions. 

Bertie rested his chin in his hand, in one of his 
favorite attitudes, and when he spoke it was with 
great deliberation. 

“ You’re sure it’s God who makes the tide turn, 
David ?” 

“Yes, quite sure. Mother says so, and father and 
teacher and everybody. Besides nobody else couldn't 
do it.” 

“No,” answered Bertie; “there was a king once 
who tried to — no, let me think how it was. His 
servants told him he could, because he was such a 
great king; but he knew he couldn’t, and did not 
like the people to say such things. So he came 
down and sat on the sand one day when the tide was 
coming in, and told it to go back, and of course it 
wouldn’t; and the silly men who had pretended to 
think the sea would obey him were made ashamed of 
themselves. Somebody told me the story once — it 
was a lady — we were sitting in a big room with red 
curtains, by a fire — ■” 

Bertie stopped suddenly ; the flash had gone and 
left him in darkness; he could see nothing more. 
David had listened with deep attention. 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


114 

“ That’s a nice story,” he said, adding, after a mo- 
ment’s pause, “ I knew there wasn’t nobody but God 
as could stop the sea.” 

Bertie gave himself a little shake and brought him- 
self back to the present. 

“Do you think God looks down out of heaven 
every time to send it back?” 

“I think He must. It do all go so regular like ; 
don’t see how it could if He didn’t look after it well.” 

Bertie turned his answer over, and seemed convinced. 

“Then, if we go on sitting here, He can’t help 
seeing us too?” 

“No, I don’t see as He can.” 

“Very well,” said Bertie, with an odd look of pur- 
pose on his face, “we’ll sit and wait. You tell me 
when it’s high tide.” 

Upon that level shore each wave seemed to advance 
upon the last, and the distance between high and low- 
water mark was very great. As a natural consequence, 
the turn of the tide was more easily defined along 
that coast than upon one more steep, and the prac- 
tised eye of the habitual watcher could distinguish 
with considerable accuracy the moment at which the 
tide might be fairly said to “ be on the turn.” 

The children sat very silent during the space of 


Bertie and bhil. 


time that elapsed before this turn should occur. 
David’s face had caught some of the awe from 
Bertie’s, and he felt as if an impending crisis were 
approaching with the advancing waves. 

At length David said, in a low voice, — 

“It be turning now.” 

And Bertie suddenly rose and knelt down, baring 
his head as he did so, whilst David copied every 
movement and clasped his hands together, as he saw 
his little companion do. 

Side by side upon the warm sand the two children 
knelt for many long minutes. A look of awe was 
upon Bertie’s face. He felt, as he saw the advancing 
waves gradually begin to retire, as if the great God 
of heaven were very near to them, looking down from 
His holy place, bidding the great ocean keep its 
appointed limits. Surely He must see the two little 
children kneeling before Him; and surely He would 
listen to their prayers. 

Bertie’s prayer took no articulate form. He could 
not put into words the strange longing that was in 
his mind — a longing to be remembered, helped, 
comforted — not to be left so utterly alone. It was 
more a cry than a prayer that arose from his heart, 
and yet he felt that he had been heard. 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


I 1 6 

He knelt for many minutes beside the receding 
waves, and when he rose his face wore a look of 
calmness and serenity very different from its troubled 
expression half an hour before. 

“David,” he said, “I do think God was very near 
us then. I think He heard.” 

“Ay, ay, He’d be sure to hear thee. What did 
thee say?” 

“I don’t quite know,” answered Bertie, gravely; 
“but I’m sure God understood.” 

“I be sure too,” returned David, with absolute 
confidence. 

“ I should like to come here every day when the 
tide turns,” said Bertie. 

“I wish thee would. I’d always be here too, I 
would.” 

Bertie pondered for a few moments. 

“I’ll come as often as I can,” he said ; “but I can’t 
be sure of coming every day at the right time. If 
I’m not here, David, will you do just as we did alone, 
and ask Him not to forget us ever, and to let me find 
out some day the things I can’t remember? I don’t 
want to be impatient ; I know He knows best ; but I 
do want to remember some day.” 

“And I’m sure He’ll help thee some day,” answered 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


II 7 


David, with some fervor. “I'll ask Him every day 
for thee, that I will ; and He’ll be sure to answer 
when He’s ready. All good folks say so, and they 
must know best. I’ll come here every day when 
the tide turns, and then He’s sure to see me.” 

So Bertie went away comforted, a sweet sense of 
fatherly love and protection seeming to overshadow 
him. It might be true enough that nobody wanted 
him, that he was of no use to anybody, but perhaps, 
if he tried to love and trust God more, tp be “ strong 
and of good courage,” to have faith in Him and wait 
quietly for His will to be done — perhaps then God 
would help him to be of some little use, to win some 
of the human love he felt to be lacking in his life, 
perhaps he might be able to fill the blank of which 
at times he was so painfully conscious. 

When he went down to dessert with the Squire 
that evening, he was quite bright and conversational, 
and the Squire unbent as the child chatted away to 
him, and was betrayed into telling some stories of 
his own boyhood, a thing which he had not done for 
fifteen long years. 

Bertie was immensely interested, and wanted them 
all told over again, after the fashion of childhood. 
As he went to bed that night, he detailed them with 


1 18 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


great accuracy to Mrs. Pritchard, who nodded her 
head several times and uttered oracular speeches to 
herself afterwards. 

Bertie, like many children, awoke early in the 
morning, and hated lying in bed awake. The sun- 
shine seemed to tempt him out into the glad world of 
spring-time, and he was generally out and about by 
six o’clock. No objection was made to his morning 
rambles, and some of his happiest hours were spent 
among the dewy trees and flowers of garden or park. 

No adventure had ever befallen him so far during 
his early walk ; but to-day it was destined to be more 
eventful than usual. 

He was wandering through a secluded shrubbery 
path, when he suddenly heard a quick rustle amid 
the laurels just around the next corner, and quite ex- 
pected to see either a gardener at work, or else one 
of the dogs hunting amid the bushes. Nothing less 
than a large animal could have made so much noise, 
yet when he turned the corner not a sign of any living 
thing was to be seen. 

Bertie looked about him rather puzzled. He won- 
dered if he had made a mistake ; but he was quite 
sure he had heard the noise, and he began to peer 
about in curious fashion for the cause of it. 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


19 


Suddenly his eyes encountered the laughing glance 
of another pair of very blue ones. Bertie quite 
jumped as this happened, and he pushed aside the 
wet laurel leaves to obtain a better view of the in- 
truder. For one moment he had fancied it was 
Queenie’s face, but he saw directly that it was a 
boy who had forced his way into the midst of the 
laurel hedge, and had tried to conceal himself there. 
Yet the boy did not appear in the least abashed at 
being caught. The merry, laughing look upon his 
face disarmed Bertie at once. 

“You will get very wet in there,” he remarked, by 
way of a beginning. 

“ I can’t be wetter than I am ; I’m about drenched,” 
was the cheerful answer. 

“Why don’t you come out, then, and get dried?” 

“Because I’m a fugitive — in mortal peril of my 
life !” answered the boy, his whole face beaming with 
fun. “You can’t think what a funk I was in when I 
heard you coming.” 

Bertie was rather puzzled. 

“ I shan’t hurt you,” he said. 

“Nor betray me?” 

“No, of course not. I don’t know what you mean.” 

Phil laughed merrily. 


120 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Well, then, I’ll come out, and chance the rest. 
It’s jolly uncomfortable in there ;” and the boy pushed 
his way out amid fresh showers of dew, and stood 
before Bertie all wet and dripping, his curly hair 
bright with sparkling drops, his merry eyes brimful 
of fun. 

The little boy stared at him in great surprise. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“I’ve told you once — a fugitive, a despairing and 
desperate character — so beware! And pray who 
are you, if I may make so bold ?” 

The child hesitated a moment. 

“I’m Bertie,” he said, slowly. 

“Bertie what?” 

He shook his head. 

“That’s all — only Bertie. I live with the Squire 
now.” 

“You do, do you? Your a little chap anyhow. 
I wonder who you are?” 

I don’t know myself,” answered Bertie, with great 
gravity; “and nobody else knows either. But I 
know who you are ; you must be Queenie’s brother, 
you are so like her.” 

Phil’s face put on a look of horror. 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


1 2 1 


“ Gracious goodness ! I am betrayed ! What will 
become of me now?” 

Bertie was extremely puzzled ; but he had a com- 
posed manner that concealed his bewilderment very 
well. 

“What do you mean, and what are you doing 
here? I wish you’d tell me.” 

Phil loved to talk better than almost anything else 
in the world, and he gladly plunged headlong into 
his tale. Bertie did not understand it all ; but he 
understood enough to be immensely interested and 
to give Phil all the encouragement necessary to 
make him exceedingly diffuse and circumstantial. 
Only towards the close did Bertie’s face grow grave. 

“But why don’t you go and tell them you’ve run 
away? Why does only Queenie know?” 

“Oh, they know Pve run away, only they don’t 
know where I am.” 

“Why don’t you tell them?” 

Phil explained his reason; but Bertie shook his 
head gravely. 

“ It looks as if you were afraid,” he said. 

“Afraid of what?” 

“ Of being scolded or punished. Are you afraid?” 

Phil’s face flushed. 


22 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Afraid indeed! If you’d seen all the lickings 
I’ve had at school, you wouldn’t think I was.” 

“Well, it looks as if you were then,” persisted 
Bertie, who knew his own mind when it was once 
made up. 

Phil looked a little vexed; though it was not in 
his nature to be easily put out. 

“That’s all rubbish ! I only hide for the fun of it. 
You don’t suppose I’d funk anything really?” 

“I didn’t think so till just now. I was thinking 
how brave you were.” 

Phil was mollified by the compliment. 

“Well, young un, you’re a pretty cool hand, I 
must say. Pray, what do you think I’d better do, 
under the circumstances?” 

“I’d go straight off to your father and mother and 
tell them all about it,” answered Bertie, gravely. 
“I don’t think they could be very angry, — it was so 
funny, you know, especially about the monkey and 
his hat. I should say I didn’t want to go back to 
school any more at Dr. Steele’s, and I expect they’ll 
let you stop at home with Queenie, and they’ll see 
you’re not ashamed or afraid. If you hide here, 
perhaps somebody will find you, and then every- 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


123 


body will think you were afraid. I like people to 
be strong and of a good courage, and speak the truth 
always, — 

Bertie stopped suddenly. It seemed to him as if 
he were repeating words he had heard somebody 
say long ago, and the feeling puzzled him and made 
him stop short. 

Phil was standing quite still now, thinking more 
than he often did. Thoughtlessness was his failing, 
and he was often and often led away by his high 
spirits ; but he was not in the very least a naturally 
deceitful boy. Indeed, he had never for a moment 
considered that there was any deceit or cowardice in 
hiding away from his parents until it pleased him to 
show himself. 

When, however, Bertie had put the idea into his 
head, he began to see that other people might not 
view his conduct in quite the same light that he did. 
It was possible even that there might be some truth 
in the little boy’s view of the case. 

“ Queenie will be awfully sold if I don’t keep to it,” 
he remarked, ruefully, for the idea was also very 
attractive to himself. “She thought it was the best 
fun in the world.” 

Bertie said nothing. He was beginning to feel 


24 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


rather shy at having been so ready with his advice 
to the elder boy — the hero of such an adventure. 

At last the silence was broken by Phil, who burst 
out laughing. 

“After all, youngster, I believe you are right. 
Perhaps it would be rather mean and shabby to let 
them have all the bother of trying to hunt me down 
when Pm here all the time. Mother would be in 
a fright, perhaps, and father might, too — though it 
isn’t his way. Perhaps Pd best show myself, and 
tell the whole tale, as you say. I should not like 
anybody to think I hid away because I was afraid or 
ashamed, for Pm not.” 

And Phil threw back his head and looked for a 
moment very like his father ; so much so that Bertie 
admired him very much. 

“Well, that’s settled then,” remarked Phil, after a 
pause. “ I only hope Queenie won’t be in a great 
way about it. She can be very cross when she is 
put out, as I daresay you know. I wonder what 
time it is. My father and mother are never down 
before nine o’clock at earliest.” 

“It’s a little past seven,” said Bertie ; “ I heard the 
clock strike just now.” 

“Well, I can’t show myself till I can go to father 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


125 


straight. I must loaf about out of sight somewhere 
for the next hour or two; but I’m getting jolly 
hungry, I know.” 

“Come and have some breakfast with me,” said 
Bertie, hospitably. “Mrs. Pritchard always gets me 
mine about half-past seven when I’ve been out — 
which is most mornings.” 

Phil’s eyes lighted with satisfaction. 

“Do you think £he Squire would mind?” 

“ No, I don’t think he would a bit. He’s very kind 
always.” 

“Why, so he is. I think I’ll come. I should like 
some breakfast awfully.” 

Mrs. Pritchard knew “Master Phil” well by sight; 
and, though surprised at his sudden appearance, re- 
ceived him hospitably enough, and added a dish of 
fried bacon to Bertie’s simple meal, which was greatly 
enjoyed by both boys. 

Whilst they sat at breakfast, the Squire happened 
to look in, as he sometimes did when Bertie was at 
his meals. Phil of course had to explain his presence 
there, which he did with so much spirit and boyish 
fun, that, although the Squire drew his thick eyebrows 
together and shook his head, he could not help giv- 
ing vent to a gruff laugh ; and when the part played 


126 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


by the monkey was told, Bertie could not restrain his 
delight, but broke into such a laugh as had not been 
heard from him since his arrival. 

“And so Bertie persuaded you to give up your 
plan and speak out, did he?” quoth the Squire, when 
Phil had got to the end of his tale. 

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil. “I’d never thought it 
could be wrong before, or cowardly, or anything like 
that ; I only meant it for fun ; but I guess the little 
chap is right.” 

The Squire’s hand rested for a moment upon Bertie’s 
shoulder. 

“What made you think Of all that, my boy?” he 
asked. 

Bertie got very red. 

“ I didn’t want him to be afraid,” he said ; “ I liked 
him, and I wanted him to tell the truth and not mind 
being punished.” 

The Squire was not a man of many words, and he 
soon left the boys to themselves, but Bertie felt by a 
sort of instinct that he had pleased the old man by 
the part he had taken, and that made him feel glad 
and happy. 

He enjoyed his hour’s talk with Phil, though he 
hardly spoke a word, for the schoolboy was a tremen- 


BERTIE AND PHIL. 


I27 


dous talker, and delighted to find so attentive a list- 
ener. To be sure, Bertie was only quite a little boy, 
but then he had proved that he had some sense and 
some pluck in him, and Phil was always ready to be- 
lieve the best and not the worst of everybody he came 
across. 

At nine o’clock he jumped up and said he must go, 
as his parents would be having breakfast soon. He 
promised to come back later and tell Bertie how he 
had fared, and he went off whistling gaily. 

Phil possessed an amount of quiet assurance that 
stood him in good stead on occasions such as the 
present. If he felt any trepidation or anxiety as to 
his reception, he did not show it in the least, as he 
strolled into the dining-room with his hands in his 
pockets, and he confronted his astonished parents 
with his broadest and sunniest smile. 

Lady Arbuthnot uttered a little shriek and fell 
back in her chair speechless; Sir Walter looked 
quickly up from his paper and drew his brows 
together darkly. 

“And pray what is the meaning of all this, sir?” 
he asked, with his severest manner. “What do you 
mean by this disgraceful conduct?” and he laid his 
hand upon an open letter that lay beside his plate. 


12$ DRIFTED ASHORE. 

Phil knew that the hand-writing was that of Dr. 
Steele. 

“ I’ve come home,” he answered, with a smile that 
was almost irresistable ; “ I really couldn’t stand it any 
longer, so I came home ; and now, you know, they 
won’t have me back. You can’t think how jolly I feel.” 

“Keep your impudence to yourself, Philip,” re- 
turned his father, with another frown. “A nice thing 
for a son of mine to be expelled from his school for 
gross misconduct!” 

“I didn’t wait for that; I expelled myself,” an- 
swered Phil. “Please may I have some pigeon pie? 
I’ve been half starved ever since I left home. You 
can’t think what a lot of boys have come to old Steele’s 
lately, father; if you knew, I know you would not 
like to have your son there. That’s one reason why 
I decided to go, and, of course, when my mind was 
made up, I had to make the most of the occasion ; 
such an opportunity might not occur again, you know. 
Mother dear, please let me have some coffee ; nobody 
in the world can make coffee like you.” 

And Phil spoke with such innocent sweetness, and 
drew up his chair with such a complete air of being 
master of the situation, that Sir Walter suddenly 
exploded into a laugh. 


SERTIE AND PHIL. 


129 


That laugh told Phil that he had won the day. 
He always knew — the rascal — that he held a soft 
place in his father’s heart, and he had presumed 
upon this when he had resolved upon quitting his 
school with flying colors. 

“You know, father,” he explained, with inimitable 
gravity, “ I really want a rest before going to Eton. 
I have overworked my brain, I think, and I am certain 
it will be a great thing for me to have a long holiday 
before I begin work again. And then, vou know, it 
will be such an advantage to Queenie to have me at 
home. She gets sadly spoiled in term-time, with 
being the only child at home and having no brothers 
to keep her in order. You see, I have taken a very 
comprehensive view of the situation, and have thought 
of every one before myself.” 

“ I see that you are the coolest and most impudent 
rascal that ever trod shoe-leather,” retorted his father, 
with a sudden laugh. “ Now, be off with you to your 
own premises; and mind, if I keep you at home, 
that you behave yourself. A nice state of things, to 
be sure ! You deserve the best thrashing you ever 
had in your life. Now, be off sharp ; and I must go 
and answer this precious missive as best I can. What 
a trouble boys are, to be sure !” 


CHAPTER IX. 


queenie’s 'ideas. 

UEENIE had slept but restlessly upon 
the night following Phil’s unexpected 
return. She had been much excited 
by his sudden appearance, and still more 
by the weighty sense of importance imposed upon 
her by the necessity of keeping the secret. 

Queenie loved a romance and a mystery better 
than anything in the world besides ; and the task of 
keeping Phil hidden away for several days, and of 
secretly supplying him with food and all other nec- 
essaries, seemed to be the most delightful and romantic 
occupation that could possibly be desired. 

She made many plans and revolved many ideas in 
her busy little brain as she lay awake in bed that 
night. 



queenie’s ideas. 13 I 

Where was Phil to hide ? Where would he be safest ? 
Where could he be certain of remaining undiscov- 
ered, and yet near enough for her to have easy access 
to his hiding-place and be able to visit him at will 
without attracting attention or suspicion by doing so ? 

For a long time this problem remained unsolved ; 
but at last a gleam of inspiration burst upon her. 

“The ruin!” she cried, speaking aloud in her ex- 
citement, though luckily there was no one near enough 
to hear. “The ruin, of course ! — down in the under- 
ground part. He will never be seen there, and I can 
carry him food whenever I like. I often play in the 
ruin. Nurse will never think anything about it if I 
go there every day.” 

“The ruin” was the remains of an old tower that 
might once have been a large building, but of which 
only a very small portion now remained. 

Children always seem oddly attracted by anything 
in the way of a tumble-down building, and all the 
young Arbuthnots were much delighted with their 
ruin. Queenie thought it would be a lovely place to 
hide Phil in, never considering in her youthful inex- 
perience how exceedingly cold and damp and uncom- 
fortable would be the accommodation afforded by the 
ancient cellar of the ruined habitation. 


132 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


When she had settled all the details of her plan 
with great exactness, she settled herself to sleep, and 
awoke in the morning brimful of zeal and energy, 
longing for their satisfactory accomplishment. 

At breakfast-time she watched her opportunity, 
and conveyed supplies from the table to her own 
private cupboard, and restricted her own share of the 
delicacies offered to the minimum, in order that Phil 
should have plenty. Queenie’s nursery breakfast 
was a less simple affair than Bertie’s, and she was 
able to set aside sufficient good things to feel quite 
comfortable as to Phil’s morning repast. 

Queenie did not go out till ten o’clock, as she 
always had to practise her music and do some reading 
with her nurse between nine and ten. To-day she 
found the task sadly irksome. She was so inatten- 
tive that nurse had to speak to her again and again ; 
and as for the tiresome scales, they seemed as if they 
could not go right this morning, and Queenie got so 
cross that she fairly belabored the poor old piano 
with two angry little fists, making it give out the most 
discordant sounds. 

“ Really, Miss Queenie,” said nurse, looking up from 
her work in surprise, “I cannot think what has come 
to you to-day.” 


QUEENIE’S IDEAS. 


133 


But there was no time to say more, or for Queenie 
to answer, for outside the door was heard the sound 
of scampering steps — steps that could belong to no 
one but a boy, and Queenie turned quite pale and 
jumped off the music-stool with a little cry. 

Next moment the door was burst open, and in 
rushed Phil like a whirlwind. 

“Phil!” cried Queenie, with accents of something 
like despair, — “Phil, how could you? Don’t you 
know nurse is always here now?” 

But Phil had caught her round the waist, and was 
executing one of his impromptu war-dances. 

“It’s all right, Queenie, all right! I’ve shown up 
and reported myself, and made it up with everybody ; 
and father says you may have a holiday in honor of 
my triumphant return; so get your hat and come 
along. Pm dying to go all over the place. I’ve not 
seen anything yet.” 

Queenie was so utterly astonished by the turn 
matters had taken, and by the overturning of all 
her cherished and carefully-laid plans, that she re- 
mained quite silent, and let her nurse put on her 
out-door things without uttering a single word. To 
tell the truth, Queenie was not quite pleased at Phil’s 
conduct. She felt that he ought to have consulted 


134 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


her before changing his mind so entirely, and she 
was a good deal disappointed at being robbed of her 
share of the romantic drama she had planned. 

Phil, however, was in such capital spirits that he 
was a long time in observing Queenie’s displeasure, 
and when he did find out the cause of her annoyance, 
he detailed to her his morning’s adventure and the 
arguments Bertie had brought forward against the 
proposed scheme. 

But when Queenie heard that Bertie’s counsel had 
been, as it were, preferred before her own, she felt 
even more annoyed than she had done before, and 
tossed her little head with her grandest air. 

“So Bertie is to be your lord and master, is he?” 
she asked, scornfully. “Well, I did think you had 
more spirit than that .” 

Phil laughed good-humoredly. 

“He’s a nice little chap enough; and Pm glad I 
took his advice now. It would have been jolly dull 
and uncomfortable hiding away, and perhaps father 
would have been more angry than he is now. He’d 
most likely have thought I was afraid, as Bertie said, 
and that would quite have spoiled it.” 

“You would not have been a bit dull or uncom- 
fortable. I should have hidden you in the ruin, and 


queenie’s ideas. 


135 


brought you everything you wanted, and stayed with 
you ever so long. It would have been just like a 
game in history; and now you’ve gone and spoilt 
everything, and it’s all Bertie’s fault.” 

“Well, this is much jollier anyhow,” cried Phil, 
who was of a more practical turn than his little 
sister. 

“ Don’t you be cross, Queenie ; that will spoil 
everything. Tell me who Bertie is. I can’t think 
where he’s come from, and he doesn’t seem to know 
himself.” 

Queenie did not wish to quarrel with Phil, of whom 
she was very fond ; but she registered a mental vow 
to let Bertie know what she thought of him , and to 
make him suffer for having been the cause of her 
disappointment. 

Phil’s question was answered in very scornful tones. 

“Who is Bertie? I’m sure I don’t know, nor any- 
body else. He was washed ashore one day, and lived 
at the Wickhams’ cottage for ever so many days. 
David is his great friend, so I suppose he was a com- 
mon boy himself once. But the Squire has adopted 
him, and now he gives himself airs, and sets up for 
being a gentleman. I don’t think much of him. I 
shan’t play with him any more.” 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


136 

Phil laughed. He was always amused when Queenie 
put on her airs, and rather admired her for it, unless 
they were directed against himself. However, he 
made her tell him all she knew about Bertie, and 
found the curious story very interesting. 

“Poor little chap !” he said, kindly; “it must be 
horrid to forget everything like that. He’s a nice 
little fellow. I shall go and see him, and tell him 
how I got on with my father. He’ll like to know 
that I didn’t get much scolded. Will you come 
too?” 

Queenie was not best pleased at this arrangement, 
but she preferred to go rather than to be left behind, 
and so they climbed the fence together and went 
boldly up to the front door to inquire for Bertie. 

Bertie, however, was not at home. He had gone 
down to the shore, Pritchard thought, and Phil 
thought he should like to go to the shore too. 

“He’s gone to see his precious David, I suppose,” 
said Queenie, disdainfully. “ He likes him better than 
he likes anybody else, and I don’t admire his taste.” 

“Why not?” asked Phil, who did not share his 
sister’s exclusive views. 

“David is a fisherman’s son,” said the little lady, 
with some scorn. 


QUEENIE’S IDEAS. 


137 


“Well, he’s none the worse for that, I suppose.” 

“ I don’t know what you call the worse. I know / 
shouldn’t care to play with him.” 

“Well, I don’t mind,” answered Phil. “I like 
playing with any boys, if they’re jolly and all that; 
but of course you needn’t if you don’t like. 

Queenie felt rather angry with Phil ; but she did 
not say anything. She began to wonder if after all 
it would be so very nice having him at home all the 
summer. He had a way of unconsciously snubbing 
her that she did not care for at all. 

When they reached the sandhills they saw the two 
boys sitting on the shore, as they often did, not talk- 
ing much, but enjoying the feeling of being together. 
Phil rushed forward with a whoop and a bound, 
and Bertie sprang up to ask him all about what had 
passed ; and as soon as the story was told a regular 
game of play ensued between the boys, which brought 
the light to Bertie’s eyes and the color to his cheeks, 
and seemed at once to transform him into a new 
being. 

Queenie stood a little apart, longing to join in the 
fun, but restrained by two powerful reasons: first, 
she thought it beneath her dignity to condescend to 
play with a poor little boy like David ; and, in the 


38 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


second, she did not mean to speak to Bertie until she 
had shown her displeasure at his conduct in daring 
to advise Phil to a course of action that had robbed 
her of much anticipated fun. 

Bertie grew tired of the game before the elder 
boys, who were stronger than he ; and then he came 
and stood by Queenie, who looked, as he thought, 
rather dull. Queenie did not look at him or speak 
to him; but Bertie was very straightforward and 
simple-minded, and did not in the least know that 
he was in the little lady’s black books. 

“Why don’t you play too?” he asked. 

“Why should I?” 

“I thought you liked playing. You said yester- 
day you were always wishing you had some boys to 
play with.” 

Queenie’s chin went up into the air. 

“ Some boys,” she answered, grandly. “I did not 
say any boys.” 

Bertie was a little puzzled by this rather fine dis- 
tinction. 

“Are we any boys?” he asked. 

“Rather like it, I think,” answered Queenie, a little 
put out by Bertie’s simplicity. 

“You wanted to play with me yesterday,” remarked 


queenie’s ideas. 139 

Bertie. “ I suppose you are rather changeable, aren’t 
you?” 

Queenie looked exceedingly angry. 

“I suppose you are a very impertinent little boy, 
and don’t know your manners.” 

Bertie saw now that Queenie was angry. He began 
to think she was not quite so nice as he had once 
thought. He judged it wise to change the subject. 

“Aren’t you very glad Phil has come home? I 
think he is such a nice boy !” 

This praise of her favorite brother soothed Queenie’s 
ruffled feelings a little. Moreover, she was finding it 
a little dull to be so cross. She felt that she was 
spoiling her own fun, without being half as dignified 
as she could wish. 

“ Yes, he is a very nice boy,” she answered, with 
more warmth ; “ only I think it is a great pity he did 
not hide away as we intended. It would have been 
great fun; and I can’t think why you came and 
spoiled it all.” 

Bertie looked a little shy, but he did not offer any 
excuse for his conduct. 

This silence encouraged Queenie, who continued, 
with judicial severity, — 

“I think you were a very interfering little boy.” 


140 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Bertie was silent for some time, and then he said, 
slowly, — 

“I didn’t mean to interfere. I only wanted him to 
go on being brave.” 

“ I should think he wouldn’t want you to teach him 
that.” 

“ It didn’t sound very brave to hide away and make 
everybody frightened and miserable. You would 
have been very unhappy if you had not known 
where he was, and so would other people. I don’t 
think it brave to frighten people and make them 
unhappy just because it’s fun.” 

Queenie made no reply. She was not angry, yet 
she rather felt as if she ought to be. 

“What made you think of all that, Bertie?” 

“ I don’t know. It seemed to come into my head. 
I suppose somebody told me once.” 

“Are you brave?” asked Queenie, suddenly. 

Bertie shook his head gravely. 

“I don’t know. I want to be; but I don’t know 
if I am. I try.” 

“ How do you try?” 

The color rose in the child’s face, and he turned 
his head a little away whilst he made his answer. 

“I try not to fret and be unhappy because — 


queenie's ideas. 


141 

because I haven’t any home or name or anything. 
I try to love God, and ask Him to make things come 
right when He thinks best. I want to be good, and 
not to be impatient or ungrateful or naughty. I can’t 
say it properly ; but I do try.” 

Bertie stopped short. He had not made his mean- 
ing at all clear, yet he knew himself what he had in 
his mind. 

Queenie was very much surprised at being talked 
to so seriously. She had never in her life been 
troubled by thoughts such as these. It seemed to 
her rather awful and unnatural. 

“Bertie,” she said, rather severely, “are you saying 
all that because you think it sounds fine?” 

He looked very much surprised. 

“All what?” 

“Why, all that about God. You can’t really care 
about Him, you know.” 

Bertie was silent. He knew that he did love God, 
and did believe that He was taking care of him ; but 
he did not in the least know how to say it all to 
Queenie. 

“Yes, I do,” he answered, after a long pause. 

“How? I don’t understand.” 

Bertie was silent again, and then said, slowly, — 


142 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“ Perhaps, if you’d got nobody belonging to you, 
you would understand. I can’t explain; only it just 
seems as if everything else had gone but God. He 
is there always — and I’ve nobody now but Him.” 

Bertie’s lips quivered, and Queenie was touched. 

“Never mind, Bertie,” she said, quickly; “it will 
all come right some day; and I’ll never tease you or 
be cross any more.” 

A smile stole over Bertie’s face. 

“That will be nice,” he said. 

“And Phil is never cross. We’ll both help you to 
be happy. Only you must not be too good, you 
know, or we shall be frightened of you.” 

Bertie’s face was bright again now. He did not 
quite understand Queenie’s words, but he saw that 
she was friendly again. 

“ You shall come to see us soon,” she said. “ Have 
you any lessons to do?” 

“No; the doctor says I mustn’t do any yet; but I 
read in the Squire’s study sometimes.” 

“I wish I mightn’t do any either,” said Queenie, 
enviously; “but I don’t suppose I shall do much, 
now Phil is at home, so we shall have plenty of time 
to play together.” 

Here Phil came rushing up, full of plans for future 


queenie’s ideas. 143 

fun. David had said that his father’s boat would 
soon be back now, and that then they could go out 
rowing or sailing together. David knew all the creeks 
and islands along the coast, the cliffs where the sea- 
gulls bred, .and all the places where fun was to be 
obtained. 

Phil was utterly and entirely delighted, and as he 
went home he confided to Queenie that running away 
from school was the best thing in the world. 


CHAPTER X. 


BERTIE’S NEW FRIENDS. 



fHE friendship between the children in 
the two adjoining houses, begun under 
rather exceptional circumstances, led to 
a considerable degree of intimacy as the 
summer wore on. 

The Squire encouraged the friendship, as likely to 
be of advantage to Bertie. Sir Walter Arbuthnot 
had no objection to it, and his wife soon became 
convinced that her children could take no harm from 
associating with the little waif. 

So Bertie went as often as he chose to the other 
house, and his nurseries were always open to his new 
friends, so that hardly a day passed without a meet- 
ing at one place or the other. 


Gertie’s new Friends. 

Bertie was fond of Phil, whose constant flow of 
high spirits and imperturbable good humor made him 
a favorite everywhere ; but Queenie was not always 
quite so easy to get on with, and although she fasci- 
nated him by her imperious ways, and made him do 
her bidding submissively ‘and gladly, yet he was not 
sure that he was very fond of her always. 

Queenie was undeniably disobedient. Phil often 
broke rules and disregarded his parents’ commands ; 
but then, with him this was the result rather of 
thoughtlessness than of downright, deliberate disobe- 
dience. I do not say that he would always deny 
himself a wish because he remembered just in the 
midst of his fun that its attainment would necessitate 
a breach of rule. Phil was lax in his ideas on such 
subjects, as are many boys of his age ; but he was 
not in the least deceitful, and he would never lay 
plans and plot and scheme to evade detection, as his 
little sister often did ; and if reminded at the outset 
that what he meditated doing involved disobedience, 
he would often abandon the idea of his own accord. 

Queenie, however, loved her own way, and hated 
control too much to be as amenable. She had a 
deeply-rooted belief that rules were only made in 
order to be broken, and that, so long as she could 


146 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


break them without detection, it was all quite right 
and fair. She had been spoiled from her babyhood, 
and it was perhaps no great wonder that she had 
come to look upon herself as a person of such great 
importance that she could hardly do wrong; still, 
from some cause or another, this was the view she 
held, and it led her into many faults, of which not 
the least was disobedience. 

Bertie, who, without quite knowing why, was always 
very determined not to disobey anybody who had 
the right to command him, noticed this failing of 
Queene’s very much, and it troubled him a good deal, 
but he had not spoken of it, for he knew now by 
experience that the little lady was very intolerant of 
criticism, and that to offer it would be pretty sure to 
provoke a quarrel. 

The Squire’s rules were few ; but they were scru- 
pulously obeyed by Bertie. It is true he had forced 
his way into the library again and again after having 
been told not to go there without leave ; but that had 
seemed to be with him a matter rather of instinct than 
a voluntary act. The library was the one place where, 
from the first moment, he had seemed at home, and 
his haunting of the room appeared to be something 
rather outside of his own will. 


BERTIE’S NEW FRIENDS. 


147 


In other matters Bertie was perfectly docile and 
obedient. Mrs. Pritchard was loud in his praises, and 
Queenie many times held him up to rather merciless 
ridicule, because he insisted on returning home at the 
time he had been told, or declined to share in some 
escapade because he thought the Squire would not 
approve of it. But Bertie, in spite of his quiet ways 
and dislike to anything like a quarrel, could be firm 
enough when he chose, and Queenie soon learned to 
know that he could “hold his own” against her, as 
Phil called it, if he meant to do so. 

This often annoyed the little girl at the moment; 
but it made her respect Bertie the more in her heart, 
and the children were very good friends, in spite of 
their little differences, and the companionship of play- 
mates of his own age and station was of undoubted 
advantage to the lonely boy. 

Still, it may be doubted whether Bertie’s happiest 
hours were not those spent by him alone with David 
wandering over the sandhills, or watching with a sense 
of reverent expectancy for the daily turning of the 
tide. All the child’s deeper thoughts were locked 
away in his own breast when he was playing with 
Queenie and Phil ; but they were brought out quite 
naturally when David and he were alone together, 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


I48 

and many earnest talks were held by the margin of 
the wide-flowing sea, and many prayers went up from 
two faithful, patient little hearts, that the great loving 
Father above, who never forgot to preserve the fisher- 
man’s cottage from danger, would look down and 
“remember Bertie again.” 

For as the weeks rolled silently away, it seemed 
as if Bertie would never “remember himself.” His 
health improved gradually, and he was active and 
merry, though always in a quiet way; but no gleam 
from the past ever lighted up his mind ; he was still 
as ignorant of his real name and state in life as he 
had been when he lay unconscious in the fisherman’s 
cottage, and the vague impressions that used some- 
times to flit across his brain were growing now more 
rare and more faint. 

Dr. Lighton sometimes shook his head and looked 
disturbed as he heard from time to time of the state 
of the case. One day he began a sort of half apology 
to the Squire for having, so to speak, imposed upon 
him the charge of the child ; but he was not allowed 
to go far in his speech. 

“Don’t name it, Lighton, I beg you. It is a 
matter of no moment to me. The child is wel- 
come to his food and shelter. He is no trouble 


BERTIE’S NEW FRIENDS. 


149 


to me, and the servants seem to enjoy having 
him.” 

“Well, but there is the future to consider,” said 
Dr. Lighton. “You are very generous and kind, but 
if this oblivion of the past continues, what of the 
future?” * 

The Squire waved his hand as if to dismiss the 
subject. 

“The future, I find, generally manages to take 
care of itself. I have no doubt he will eventually 
remember something by which we can identify him ; 
and if not, why, I must do what I can ; I am ready 
to take my chance.” 

“You are very good,” said the young doctor. 
“I had no idea of letting you in for anything so 
serious.” 

The Squire would not let him say more. 

“The house is big enough for us both,” he said, 
rather curtly, “and that is all that matters. He is 
welcome to stay till he is claimed.” 

So Bertie stayed on in the unquestioning confidence 
of childhood, and at times he would almost forget 
that all his life had not been spent at the old Manor 
House. 

For the most part Bertie was happy enough in the 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


150 

society of little companions not much older than 
himself ; but he had his own troubles to bear, as all 
of us have, and one of these was of a rather curious 
nature. 

The boating excursions to which Phil had so 
eagerly looked forward became in due course a 
reality. The fisherman, David’s father, and his two 
big sons, returned from their long excursion in search 
of herrings, and they were quite ready to take out 
parties of pleasure in their large boat, or to let the 
little one to the boys to row themselves along the 
coast, provided David were of the party. 

Bertie had looked forward as impatiently as any- 
body for the time to come when they could go out 
sailing or rowing over the sea he loved so well ; and 
yet, when the day came, and he found himself in the 
boat, gliding over the shining water, he was seized 
with a horrible and unconquerable sense of terror ; 
his agitation became so great that the boat had to be 
put back to land, so that he could be put ashore and 
no determination on his own part, or persuasions or 
ridicule from others, ever induced him to repeat the 
experiment. Again and again he made up his mind 
that it was all nonsense, and that he ivould conquer 
himself, and again and again the first sight of the 


1 


BERTIE’S NEW FRIENDS. 


51 


boat would bring back all the nameless horrors which 
he could neither understand nor drive away. The 
very thought of trusting himself to those frail timbers 
was agony to him, and nothing could bring him to 
the point of entering the boat again. 

Phil and Queenie laughed at him, and David was 
quite distressed that he should miss all the pleasant 
hours the rest spent upon the water ; but they were 
all kind each in a different way, and Bertie was 
allowed to please himself in peace until the other 
big brothers came from school, and with them his 
troubles began. 

Walter, Bernard, and Ralph Arbuthnot were strong 
lads, high-spirited, full of fun and mischief, and quite 
determined, like most boys fresh from school, to get 
all the fun out of the holidays that they possibly 
could. They were not hard-hearted or unkindly 
boys, but they loved to tease and to play tricks on 
anybody who gave them the chance, and they found 
in little Bertie a sort of victim whom they sadly 
plagued, without having any idea of the pain they 
inflicted upon him. 

He took it all so quietly that they fancied he did 
not feel it. When they laughed at him for being 
nameless and homeless, a sort of “outcast” and 


52 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“vagabond,” he never made any reply, and they had 
no notion that their taunts cut into his very heart 
and brought back all that sense of misery and desola- 
tion that he had gradually been outgrowing with time. 

They liked the little boy in reality, although he 
was so different from themselves that they could not 
help poking fun at him. They had no wish to be 
unkind, but they did not understand him in the least, 
and had no idea that he was not as careless and 
“thick-skinned” as themselves. 

It was some time before they discovered Bertie’s 
horror of the water. The arrival of a very favorite 
uncle soon after the commencement of the holidays 
took up a great deal of their time and attention ; and 
so long as Uncle Fred was available to play tennis or 
cricket or take long walks or rides with them, they 
wanted nothing else, and the boating was given up 
for a season. 

Mr. Frederick Arbuthnot was always very kind to 
Bertie whenever the child appeared, but the little boy 
rather shunned the Court just now, for he dreaded 
the banter of the bigger boys, and he fancied that he 
was not wanted by any one. 

He returned to his old pastime of wandering over 
the sandhills alone or with David; but a sort of 


BERTIE’S NEW FRIENDS. 


153 


melancholy had come over him, and he often felt 
unspeakably lonely and desolate. The only thing 
that seemed to do him any good was to repeat 
again and again the words of unchanging promise 
that he had learned from David’s card that Sunday 
long ago. 

One day, as the two boys were sitting together 
under the shadow of the boat, they heard the sound 
of trampling footsteps and many voices, and the 
whole party from the big house rushed down to the 
shore and proceeded unceremoniously to lay hands 
upon the boat, ordering David to run and fetch oars 
and rudder whilst they launched the craft. 

Bertie stood aside and watched them run the boat 
down to the water. He learned from Queenie that 
Uncle Fred was coming down shortly, and was going 
to take them a long sail or row, and she asked Bertie 
if he would not like to come too. 

“You know we shall be quite safe with Uncle Fred. 
He was once a sailor himself.” 

But Bertie shook his head with a troubled look. 
He would so much have liked to go, had it not been 
for his fears ; but he dared not. He knew he should 
be miserable as soon as he felt himself upon the 


water. 


154 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Phil came up at the moment to make the same 
suggestion that Queenie had done, and the attention 
of the other boys was attracted, and they learned for 
the first time Bertie’s horror of the water. 

“Why, that must never be allowed to go on!” 
cried Walter, with a twinkle in his eye. “Bertie will 
grow up a pitiful coward if we don’t take him in 
hand. Little boys who are afraid must get over 
their fears. Come along, Bertie, and get into that 
boat at once. I’ll guarantee you shall be safe.” 

But Bertie shrank back, looking pale and scared. 

“ I don’t want to,” he said, quickly. 

“ Little boys can’t always do what they want,” 
quoth Bernard, sententiously ; “we were brought up 
to believe that, if you weren’t. Don’t you be a fool, 
Bertie, or you’ll never be good for anything.” 

“If you once get over the funks, you’ll enjoy it 
like anything,” urged Phil. “Don’t be silly, Bertie; 
they’ll make you do it, and you’d better go peaceable 
than not.” 

Bertie was horribly frightened ; an unreasoning 
panic had seized him ; he made a rush to try and 
escape, but nothing could have been more fatal to 
his hopes than that. He was caught in two minutes, 
and the excitement of the chase and of his opposition 


BERTIE’S NEW FRIENDS. 


155 


made his captors absolutely determined now to work 
their will upon him. A very little is enough to rouse 
a boy’s instincts of tyranny, and to the Arbuthnots, 
who did not know what nerves were Bertie’s cowardice 
seemed utterly despicable. Indeed, they firmly be- 
lieved that they were doing him a real service in 
putting it down with a firm hand. 

“Here he is!” cried Walter, who was holding 
the prisoner in an iron clasp. “This sort of thing 
won’t do, you know. Who has a piece of whip- 
cord?” 

Two or three pieces were speedily produced, and 
the boys proceeded deliberately to tie Bertie’s hands 
and feet firmly together. His terrified struggles only 
served to strengthen their purpose and to draw the 
knots tighter, whilst the sight of his obvious fear 
convinced them that they were doing the best thing 
possible in teaching him how foolish it was. 

Queenie and Phil took no part in the matter. They 
were rather sorry foif Bertie, but both thought their 
own brothers perfectly right in their estimate of the 
case; and when Walter and Bernard took the captive 
up bodily, carried him down to the water’s edge, and 
deposited him in the boat, they could not help joining 
in the triumphant laugh that was raised, and they 


56 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


thought Bertie quite stupid and bad-tempered not to 
enjoy the joke himself. 

Uncle Fred had not as yet appeared, and some 
instinct warned the boys that Bertie’s “lesson” had 
better be concluded before his arrival. David was 
just coming from the hut with his load, and the boys 
ran to meet him and took the oars from him, for they 
were not quite certain what he might do if Bertie 
appealed to him for help. 

Bertie, however, lay quite still, his face as white cs 
death, his eyes fixed with terrified intensity upon the 
dancing water that was ruffled to-day by a fresh 
breeze. When the boys pushed out into deep water, 
he only shivered convulsively, but did not utter a 
sound. 

The big lads were rather disappointed. They ex- 
pected more of a “scene,” and betrayed the nature 
of their true feelings by trying to add to the child’s 
silent yet visible terror; for, had they only been 
actuated by the wish to benefit him, they might 
surely have dispensed with any such unnecessary 
demonstration. 

Queenie and Phil had remained on shore, and 
the big boys felt themselves entire masters of the 
situation. 


bertie’s new friends. 


15; 

“Can you swim, Bertie?” asked Walter. 

The child shook his head, but said nothing. 

“Because, you know, you should learn. It would 
help you better than anything to overcome your 
foolish terror. Now I’ve heard that there’s nothing 
like being pitched into deep water at once to teach a 
fellow to swim, especially when he’s small.” 

“To be sure that’s the way!” cried Ralph. “I 
know I read in a book that little niggers were always 
taught that way. I don’t believe it ever fails.” 

“We might try, any way,” suggested Bernard, 
gravely ; “ and there’s no time like the present. You 
see, if it should fail, no great harm would be done. 
People always come up three times before they 
drown, and we could catch hold of him when he 
came up if he could not manage to swim. It’s a 
nice warm day, and I always think the sea is more 
buoyant when it’s a little rough.” 

The boat was rocking very much with the com- 
bined roughness of the sea and the restlessness of 
the boys. Bertie could not hold by anything, for 
the whip-cord resisted his most violent efforts to free 
himself, and in his terror he fancied every moment 
that he should be rolled out into the green, terrible 
water. Of course there was not the least danger of 


5 * 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


this, but fear knows no laws, and the horror of his 
position was almost more than the child’s nerves 
could stand. There was water, too, at the bottom of 
the boat, and the lapping of the waves against the 
sides made him certain that it leaked and that they 
would soon be swamped. 

But the idea of being thrown overboard was the 
most awful of all, and he was firmly convinced that 
his tormentors were quite capable of doing -what they 
proposed. So that when Ralph sprang towards him, 
making the boat lurch horribly, he was certain his 
last moment had come, and, uttering a stifled cry, he 
fell back senseless. 


CHAPTER XI. 


UNCLE FRED. 

dE boys were frightened enough them- 
selves now, and their only thought was 
to get to land as quickly as possible and 
find help for Bertie. They hardly knew 
whether they were most relieved or most alarmed to 
see that their uncle had now come down to the shore, 
and was standing with Queenie and Phil, waiting for 
the boat to come back. 

They were glad he had come, because he would 
know what to do with Bertie ; but they had an uneasy 
feeling that he would not approve their treatment of 
him, and their own consciences began to tell them 
that they had not acted well towards the helpless 
child. 

But they had not much time for thinking or for 



1 60 DRIFTED ASHORF. 

planning excuses. Five minutes of hard rowing 
brought them to the shore, and Uncle Fred hailed 
them in his hearty way, and was waiting to help them 
to run the boat agound. 

“Where’s Bertie?” cried Queenie. “Did he mind 
the water to-day?” 

Walter’s face was very red. 

“ I think he’s fainted, or something. I never guessed 
he’d be scared like that.” 

Uncle Fred looked searchingly at the speaker, and 
then, catching a glimpse of the huddled-up figure in 
the bow, he stooped down and lifted out the uncon- 
scious child. 

Bertie’s face was deadly pale, and quite rigid. His 
wrists were bleeding where the cord had cut into 
them. 

David uttered a frightened cry; and Uncle Fred’s 
face was very stern. 

“What does all this mean?” 

The boys were silent ; and Queenie tried to make 
some explanation that should also be an exculpation ; 
but as soon as her uncle had gleaned the bare facts 
of the case, he cut her short very unceremoniously. 

“Go home, all of you ! There will be no boating 
to-day. I have nothing to say to you now. Another 


tJNCLE Fred. 


k5i 

time we must talk of your cowardly and cruel conduct. 
Go away now at once. You must not be in sight 
when the child recovers. Go ! I am very much 
displeased with you all.” 

The boys and their sister moved slowly away in a 
shamefaced manner, very unlike their usual rattling 
pace. They heartily wished they had never indulged 
their teasing propensities to the extent of trying to 
give Bertie a lesson. Their own good feeling told 
them they had been wrong, and they were terribly 
vexed at having incurred Uncle Fred’s displeasure. 
Queenie and Phil wished now that they had followed 
their first impulse, and interfered on Bertie’s behalf; 
but they had been ashamed to do so at first, and now 
the mischief was done. 

Meantime, Uncle Fred had cut the cords that bound 
Bertie, and had bathed his face with vinegar and 
water that David brought from the cottage. Very 
soon Bertie heaved a long, shuddering sigh, and slowly 
opened his eyes. He did not at first seem to know 
where he was or who was with him ; but after Uncle 
Fred had spoken to him once or twice kindly, reas- 
suring words, the child appeared to recover himself, 
and put out a small hand, saying questioningly, — 

“ Uncle Fred?” 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


162 

The young man smiled at hearing himself so ad- 
dressed, but he was pleased to be accepted on such 
terms. 

“Yes, my little man, it is Uncle Fred ; and if Uncle 
Fred had only been here a few minutes earlier, all this 
should not have happened. I am very sorry those 
rascally nephews of mine have given you such a fright ; 
but you will be a brave boy, I know, and not think 
of it more than you can help, and you will be none 
the worse in the long run.” 

Bertie remembered all about it now, and he began 
to tremble in spite of the kindly pressure of Uncle 
Fred’s arm round him. 

“What is the matter, my child? You are not 
afraid now?” 

“No — not exactly — if they won’t do it again.” 

“I will take care they do not.” 

“They said they would throw me in to teach me to 
swim,” and the child’s teeth chattered at the bare 
recollection. 

Uncle Fred muttered some words that Bertie did 
not catch, and then said aloud, — 

“Never you mind what they said. They shall 
never have another chance.” 

Something in the tone warned Bertie that his tor- 



















































































































































































1 










































r 











UNCLE FRED. 


163 

mentors were going to have rather a warm time of it, 
as they themselves would phrase it, from this favorite 
uncle of theirs. 

He was sorry then, and looked up suddenly with 
appealing eyes. 

“Please don’t be angry with them. I don’t think 
they understand. You see, it never happened to 
them.” 

“What never happened to them?” 

“Why, the water coming in — the cold, dreadful 
water — rising higher and higher — and the people 
crying and shouting and rushing to the boats;” and 
Bertie pressed his hands into his eyes, as if to shut 
out some terrible picture. 

Uncle Fred remained long silent, hoping the child 
would go on, and perhaps utter words that might be 
a clue for his identification; but he said no more, 
and presently the young man asked, — 

“And did all that happen to you, Bertie?” 

“Ye — es — unless I dreamed it;” and Bertie slowly 
took his hands from his face and looked wonderingly 
up at Uncle Fred. 

“And when did it happen? Just before you came 
here?” 

But the child shook his head with a look of distress. 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


164 

“ I don’t know. I can’t remember. But in the' 
boat it seemed just like it.” 

Uncle Fred was much interested ; but he judged it 
better to say no more on such an exciting topic. 
Bertie’s eyes glowed strangely, and his face, a little 
while ago so deadly pale was now flushed and hot, 
and the little frame still quivered with excitement, 
and perhaps with fear. It was evident that the 
child needed soothing, and he purposely turned 
the conversation into a channel that could not but 
be safe. 

“Bertie,” he said, gravely, yet very kindly, “when 
you are frightened and troubled about anything, do 

you remember to ask God to take care of you and to 

% 

make you brave and strong?” 

Bertie looked up quickly and wistfully into the face 
above him. 

“I do sometimes; I pray to God every day ; but 
when I get frightened, I think I forget.” 

“Do not forget again then, my child; for you will 
never pray to God in vain. He never forgets.” 

Bertie’s glance was more touchingly appealing 
than before. It made Uncle Fred ask, — 

“What is it, my child?” 

Bertie’s lip quivered. 


UNCLE FRED. 


65 


“I’ve been asking Him for weeks and weeks to let 
me remember who I am ; and He never does. I do 
try to believe He will; but He does make it such a 
long time. Sometimes it seems as if He must have 
forgotten, though David says He doesn’t ever forget 
really; but I do think He must have forgotten 
me;” and then the child’s voice broke altogether, 
and he told amid his sobs how he and David 
tried to meet every day at the turn of the tide, 
to pray for something that they seemed to ask 
in vain. 

Uncle Fred was much touched by the simply-told 
tale, and he put his arm round the little boy in quite 
a fatherly fashion, and let him sob out his trouble 
upon his shoulder, and then, when the child had 
grown somewhat calmer, he began to talk to him in 
a quiet and reassuring fashion. 

“My dear little boy, you may be quite sure of one 
thing, and that is that God hears every word you say, 
and that not one of your prayers is lost; but you 
must be patient, and wait for the answer until He 
sends it. He knows when that will be, though you 
do not, and He knows best.” 

“I know,” answered Bertie, quickly. “I always 
try to remember to say ‘Thy will be done’ too;” 


66 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


and the old look of perplexity stole over his face as 
he added, “ Somebody told me to say that — it was 
when the water was coming in.” 

“You do not know who told you?” asked Uncle 
Fred, gently. 

Bertie shook his head and looked distressed. Al- 
ready the recollection had passed like a flash, leaving 
only the blank behind. 

“Whoever it was said quite right,” said Uncle Fred, 
gravely. “You know who it was that taught us that 
prayer, Bertie?” 

“Jesus,” answered the child, softly. 

“Yes, Jesus ; and you must never forget how much 
He had to bear, and to bear for us. He prayed that 
the bitter cup might pass away if it were God’s will, 
and yet He drank it to the very dregs, and all for 
our sakes. He once thought God had forsaken Him ; 
but do you think He had?” 

Bertie shook his head. 

“ Oh no. He could not forget His Son, you know.” 

“And He cannot forget one of His children either, 
Bertie. Are you one of His little ones, my child?” 

Bertie looked up wistfully. 

“I don’t know, I should like to be. How can I 
tell?” 


UNCLE FRED. I 67 

“ Have you ever gone to Him in His own way, and 
asked Him to make you His?” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Bertie, slowly. “ I have 
prayed to Him ; but I don’t know how to go to Him 
— I don’t know what His way is.” 

“ His way is the way of the cross,” answered Uncle 
Fred, very gravely; and then, seeing that the child 
did not understand his meaning, he added, “ I mean, 
my child, that you must go to Jesus first, and the 
rest will follow of itself.” 

“How can I go to Him?” asked the child. 

“You can go in prayer, my little boy. You must 
take all your troubles with you and all your sins. 
Your burden of sins may not be very heavy, but I 
daresay it troubles you sometimes.” 

Bertie hung his head. 

“ I feel very naughty sometimes. I get angry and 
cross, and I think naughty things, if I don’t say them ; 
and then I am miserable, and it doesn’t seem as if 
God would care for me any more. Once or twice, 
when I’ve been frightened, I’ve said things that were 
not quite true. I know God can’t love me any more 
if I do that. I sometimes think that is why He won’t 
hear me when I pray to Him.” 

Uncle Fred was too wise to make light of Bertie’s 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


1 68 

little recital of sins. He said gravely, and gently, — 

“You will have to get those sins taken away, 
Bertie, before you can feel quite happy again, or 
before you will feel to be one of God’s little children.” 

Bertie look up pleadingly. 

“Will Jesus take them away if I ask Him?” 

“Yes, Bertie, indeed He will. He is always wait- 
ing for us to come to Him with our sins. He can 
see our hearts. He knows when we are really sorry ; 
and if we are, He washes away our sins in His 
precious blood, and make us worthy to call ourselves 
the sons of God.” 

“But — but — ” 

“Well, my child, what is your .difficulty?” 

“I don’t quite know how to say it; but don’t you 
think He might not care to listen to anybody like 
me? He would love you — perhaps He likes grown- 
up people to come; but I’m only a little boy — and I 
don’t belong to anybody — and perhaps — ” 

“You belong to Jesus, Bertie,” was the gravely- 
spoken answer. “You belong to the dear Lord who 
died on the cross to save you. And can you not tell 
me who it was that said, ‘ Suffer the little children to 
come unto Me, and forbid them not?’ Is He likely 
after that to forbid them Himself?” 


UNCLE FRED. 


169 

Bertie looked up with a sudden smile. 

“He is very good, isn’t He? I should like to 
belong to Him always.” 

“Yes, Bertie, go to Him, and leave your burden of 
sin at the foot of His cross. Be one of His own little 
children — His faithful little soldiers, ready to obey 
Him and to fight for him as well as to love and trust 
Him ; and then, whatever happens to you here, 
whatever may be His will about you, whether He 
gives you back to your earthly parents or not, you 
will always have a loving Father in heaven, a Friend 
and Guardian in His Son, and in His good time, 
I trust, a Comforter and Counsellor in the good 
Spirit He will breathe into your heart. Whatever 
else may happen to you, Bertie, you will never be 
alone.” 

The child could not understand all this speech, yet 
he entered into its spirit, and it comforted him 
strangely. He felt as if once he had known some- 
thing of the grand truths now unfolded before him, 
as it were, for the first time, and the sweet, undefined 
sense of familiarity brought them home to his heart 
with a peculiar sense of warmth and light. 

He looked up with one of his rare smiles. 

“I think I understand. I think I had forgotten 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


170 

about Jesus; but I shan’t forget any more. I love 
Him very much now.” 

“And you will not love Him any less as time goes 
on,” answered Uncle Fred, in the grave, kind way 
that Bertie liked so much. “ And now, my little boy, 
I am going to take you home, and tell the Squire all 
about my naughty nephews.” 

Bertie looked rather disturbed. 

“ I don’t want them to be punished. They did not 
mean to be unkind. They did not understand.” 

“Well, well, we will not talk of that any more. 
They were old enough to know better ; but if it dis- 
tresses you, they shall get off easily. Do you feel 
quite able to walk home now?” 

“Oh yes!” answered Bertie, getting up, but find- 
ing himself a little unsteady on his feet. However, 
with the help of Uncle Fred’s hand, he was able to 
get along quite easily, aud his new friend talked so 
pleasantly and kindly to him all the way, that he 
enjoyed the walk very much, and was almost sorry 
when it was over. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A PROJECT. 

HEN Uncle Fred returned to his 
brother’s house, he went in search 
of his nephews, with the intention of 
speaking his mind to them pretty 
freely on the unmanliness of their treatment of little 
Bertie. But when he opened the schoolroom door, 
he was assailed by such a chorus of eager voices, 
that it was some time before he could “get a word 
in edgeways,” as the saying is. 

“Oh, Uncle Fred, how is Bertie now?” 

“Oh, Uncle Fred, we’re so awfully sorry!” 

“We really did not mean anything.” 

“We never guessed he’d care like that.” 

“We only meant it in fun, we never thought he’d 
think we should !” 

“Please, Uncle Fred, don’t be cross with them:” 



\J2 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


this from Phil, who had taken no active share in the 
matter. “They didn’t really know how frightened 
he is. I think I ought to be punished most, because 
I only laughed instead of taking Bertie’s part, and I 
knew much better than they did about him.” 

Uncle Fred looked into Phil’s bright, frank face 
with an approving glance. He liked the boy all the 
better for his honest confession of a fault. 

“That is right, my boy. Never try to shirk blame 
when you feel you have deserved it. Why did you 
not take Bertie’s part, then, when you understood 
so well how frightened it made him to be on the 
water?” 

Phil hung his head for a moment, but he looked 
up bravely again the next, and in spite of the gravity 
of his face there was a merry sparkle in his bright 
blue eyes. 

“It was not at all nice of me, Uncle Fred, but I 
couldn't help enjoying it. Bertie did cut away so 
fast, and kicked and struggled so hard, and seemed 
in such a passion — I suppose it was fright really, 
but it looked like a jolly big rage, and he made me 
laugh, and when I once begin to laugh, it’s all over 
with me;” Phil glanced up roguishly at his uncle, 
and then dropped his eyes and added, with genuine 


A PROJECT. 


if S 

penitence, ^But I was awfully sorry when I saw that 
Bertie was really hurt. It hasn’t done him any harm, 
has it?” 

‘‘I hope not; but it is very bad for any one to 
have a scare like that ; and Bertie is not strong, and 
you big boys ought to be more manly than to com- 
bine against one smaller and weaker than yourselves. 
You would not like to be called cowards, but if you 
heard the story told in a book, I think you would 
call it a very cowardly trick to set upon a little fellow 
like Bertie and treat him as you did.” 

The boys flushed deeply, but did not try to defend 
themselves. They felt a little guilty and conscience- 
stricken, for one thing, and then Uncle Fred was an 
immense favorite, and they knew that he never spoke 
to them like this without good cause. 

But Queenie was indignant at having her brothers 
condemned, and she tossed her head in her favorite 
fashion as she exclaimed, — 

“/think it’s Bertie who is the coward, Uncle Fred, 
not my boys.” 

He turned and looked at the little girl with a smile 
in his kind eyes. 

“Is it always cowardly to be afraid, do you think, 
Queenie?” 


174 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Of course it is, Uncle Fred!” she answered, 
quickly; and after a moment’s pause she added, 
proudly, “ I'm not afraid of anything!” 

“No?” he answered, questioningly ; and then he 
looked grave as he said, glancing round at all the 
faces of his little relatives, “Perhaps you would all 
be braver and happier if you were afraid of more 
things.” 

Queenie looked surprised and defiant. Uncle Fred 
often puzzled her by some of the things he said, and 
she thought that this was great nonsense. She won- 
dered why the boys said nothing and looked half 
ashamed ; but she was not readily silenced, and 
answered, quickly, — 

“ It can't be brave to be afraid, Uncle Fred. You’re 
only trying to puzzle us. Everybody knows that it’s 
only cowards who are afraid.” 

“Excuse me, Queenie, but you’re quite wrong 
there,” answered Uncle Fred, quietly. “All the 
bravest men I have known have been afraid — very 
much afraid, some of them — of some things.” 

“What sort of things?” asked Queenie, with a 
little gesture of scorn. “ Rats, and mice, and snakes, 
and all that sort of thing?” 

Uncle Fred’s face looked rather grave, yet very 


A PROJECT. 


175 


kind, and he took Queenie’s hands in his and gazed 
down very steadily into the little girl’s blue eyes, that 
glowed and flashed rather excitedly. 

“No, my little maiden,” he answered, speaking in 
a tone that the children often heard him use, and that 
never failed to impress them more than they could 
quite understand. “No, Queenie, they were not 
afraid of things of that kind, these brave men whom 
it has been my privilege to know ; they have been 
afraid of doing wrong, afraid of falling into careless, 
idle, disobedient ways, afraid of not proving them- 
selves true and fearless servants of the King they had 
bound themselves to serve, afraid that by some act 
of their own, committed perhaps thoughtlessly and 
without intent of wrong, they might injure the great 
cause they had vowed to protect and to forward all 
their lives through.” 

The boys looked down, conscience-stricken and 
abashed, but Queenie either did not or would not 
understand her uncle’s meaning. 

“ What king ?” she asked, impatiently. “We haven’t 
got a king, we have a queen ; and if you’re talking 
about foreigners, of course we all know they’re all 
cowards!” And Queenie waved her hand, as if dis- 
missing all such poltroons from the question in hand, 


DRIFTED ashore'. 


{76 

with a fine insular prejudice that would have made 
Uncle Fred laugh at any other time; but just now 
his face was yery gf'ave and earnest.- 

“The King these brave men served, Queenie, is 
the great King I trust we are all bound to obey — 
every one of us, whether we be men or women, or 
little children only just starting in life with the little 
battles of childhood to fight. There, my boys, I 
know you understand me. I will not preach to you 
to-day ; I will only say how pleased I shall be to see 
you all more afraid of breaking the wise laws that 
our King has laid down for His soldiers.” 

Queenie did not approve a line of argument which 
she felt put her at a disadvantage. She was silent, 
more because she stood a little in awe of Uncle Fred 
than because she was convinced by what he said. 
She was not prepared to admit that fear was ever 
anything but cowardly, and was half vexed when Phil 
looked up and said, lightly, — 

“I know what you mean, Uncle Fred, only you 
know it’s awfully hard for a fellow to think of all that, 
and to be afraid when he ought. It’s much easier to 
be like Queenie, — like all of us, in fact, — and not to 
be afraid of anything.” 

Phil was always a favorite with everybody. He 


A PROJECT. 


i 77 


was so merry and bright and outspoken, that it was 
impossible not to like him, and Uncle Fred smiled 
at the boy as he answered his remark. 

“The easiest way is not always the best, Phil.” 

“Why, no, to be sure, worse luck! it’s generally 
the worst!” 

“You wouldn’t like all your fighting to be quite 
plain sailing, would you, Phil? There would not be 
much glory in it if it were.” 

Phil looked grave for a moment, and then answered, 
brightly, — 

“To be sure not. No, I’d like some good tough 
battles, only Pm such a fellow for forgetting — I might 
get into the wrong lot before ever I knew what I was 
about, as I did just now.” 

“You must try to learn thoughtfulness as you grow 
older,” said Uncle Fred, kindly; “that will be one of 
your battles.” 

“All right,” cried Phil ; “ I’ll try to think of it like 
that. Are you going to punish us, Uncle Fred, for 
bullying Bertie? because if you are, I wish you’d set 
about it sharp. I hate having a thing hanging over 
one’s head.” 

Uncle Fred could not help laughing. 

“Well, as Pm not your father, but only an uncle, 


i;8 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


I don’t know that I have any right to punish you, 
and, besides Bertie almost made me promise not to. 

And as you seem sorry for being unkind and un- 
manly, I would much rather say no more about it, 
but let bygones be bygones. I don’t think you will 
be tempted to repeat the offence, and all I will ask 
of you is to try and be kinder to the little boy in the 
future, remembering that he is very lonely, and has 
nobody in the wide world whom he can really look 
to for love or kindness.” 

“Oh yes, poor little chap!” cried Phil; “we’ll be 
good to him now;” and all the boys echoed Phil’s 
words heartily; and Uncle Fred left the room, feel- 
ing that there was no need to punish his thoughtless 
nephews. It was in ignorance and carelessness that 
they had acted, not with intentional cruelty. 

“And don’t you call yourself ‘only an uncle’ any 
more,” cried out Phil after him ; and all the boys 
broke out into the chorus — 

“ For he’s a jolly good fellow,” 

which pursued their uncle all down the long passage. 

They had all recovered their usual high spirits and 
good temper except Queenie, who still felt annoyed, 
though she could hardly have explained why. 


A PROJECT. 


m 

“Bertie is a coward!” she exclaimed, in her very 
determined fashion. “He is a horrid little coward, 
whatever anybody says ; and I think it served him 
quite right.” 

The boys were secretly rather pleased that their 
little sister stood by them, as it were, so boldly. 
They were very fond of Queenie, and liked to look 
upon her as the little queen she had always been 
taught to consider herself. 

“Well, I’m not quite so sure of that,” answered 
Phil, who was always honest, whatever faults he might 
have besides. “ I heard Dr. Lighton say once that 
he was afraid of the water because he had been so 
nearly drowned, and that he could not help it, and 
would most likely grow out of it if only he was let 
alone.” 

The elder boys exchanged glances, conscious that 
their idea of curing him had differed from the doctor’s. 

“Why didn’t you say so before, Phil?” asked 
Walter. 

“ I never thought of it,” he answered ; “ I always 
do forget everything.” 

“ I should take him out every day in a boat till he 
gave over being silly about it — that’s what I should 
do if he were my little boy,” announced Queenie, 


i8o 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


very grandly. “I have no idea of spoiling children 
like that.” 

And at that all the boys laughed, but they laughed 
admiringly, for they were proud of their sister’s spirit, 
although they all knew quite well that she had been 
spoiled by every one in the house, save her nurse, 
from the hour of her birth until now. 

“That’s right, Queenie,” cried Bernard. “Never 
you let anybody have a will of his own but yourself. 
You stick to your opinion, and let all the rest go. 
But we can’t bully that little chap any more, after 
what Uncle Fred said. Shall we try to make it up 
with him instead, and show him we didn’t mean any 
harm?” 

“Uncle Fred would like that,” remarked Ralph. 
“Only I don’t know if he’d care to make friends just 
to-day — Bertie, I mean, you know.” 

“ He’d make friends, I know,” answered Phil. “ He 
never bears malice ; he’s a meek, gentle little chap ; 
but I guess he’s had enough of us for a while. I vote 
we leave him in peace for to-day, and think of some- 
thing jolly for to-morrow.” 

“What sort of thing?” 

“ Oh, I don’t quite know; I must think a bit,” and 
Phil thrust both his hands into his tangle of curls. 


A PROJECT. 


1 8 1 


“Why, yes, I have it now ! You know what we were 
going to do to-day — row to that odd rocky bay ten 
miles down the coast, where the sea-gulls live. Well, 
let’s go a regular picnic there. Uncle Fred can take 
some of us in the boat, and three of us can ride 
by the road, — Bertie loves to ride, and I’ve hardly 
ever lent him my pony, though I’ve often promised 
to, — and we’ll take heaps of food, and have a regular 
jolly day. Bertie will like that no end, and we’ll 
show him we want to make up for frightening 
him.” 

Phil’s plan was hailed with acclamation, and when 
Uncle Fred heard of it he gave his ready consent, 
and was pleased that the boys should have wished it 
themselves. Fie thought the change of the ride and 
the picnic would be very good for Bertie, and he 
made all plain with the children’s parents for the long 
day’s holiday upon the water. 

Phil and Queenie, it was decided, should be the 
two to ride with Bertie. The little girl submitted to 
this arrangement because she was not very fond of 
long journeys in the boat; its movement sometimes 
made her feel rather sick, and the glare of the sun 
upon the water often brought on a headache. She 
liked riding on the whole better than the long row ; 


182 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


but, as she felt a little cross with Bertie, she was not 
quite pleased at being obliged to spend so much time 
in his company. Still, that could not be helped, and 
she was very anxious to visit the rocky bay ; for she 
had heard a great deal about it that had raised her 
curiosity to a high pitch, and she had a secret hope 
of her own which she at last confided to Phil. 

“ Phil,” she said, mysteriously that evening, as they 
wandered together about the garden, — “Phil, don’t 
people say that lots of young sea-gulls are hatched 
in that bay every year?” 

“Why, yes, to be sure. What of that?” 

“Phil, don’t you think,” sinking her voice to a 
very low whisper, “that we might find one or two 
little gulls if we searched very carefully, and bring 
them home in an empty basket? You know some 
people have tame sea-gulls in their gardens, and I 
should love to catch some of my very own and keep 
them here always.” 

Phil seemed struck with the brilliancy of this idea. 

“What a capital thought, Queenie!” he cried. 
“It would be a tremendous lark to take a sea-gull’s 
nest — only, I fancy they’re pretty hard to get” — He 
paused suddenly, and then added, as if struck by an 
unwelcome thought, “But Pm afraid it’s the wrong 


A PROJECT. 


183 


time for sea-gulls. I think all the young birds are 
hatched in the spring. I don’t believe there will be 
any left now, you see it’s August — pretty nearly 
September too.” 

Queenie’s face fell. 

“ Oh, how tiresome ! Why can’t they arrange 
things differently? Are you sure, Phil?” 

“About the young birds, Queenie? Yes, I’m 
afraid I am sure.” 

For a few minutes she looked a good deal cast 
down, but then a brighter look crossed her face. 

“I’ll tell you what we can do, Phil,” she said, with 
energy. “We can have a good look at the place, 
and make David tell us where all the best places 
are; and then, you know, when the spring comes 
round — ” 

Phil tossed his cap into the air. 

“To be sure, Queenie ! you’re a brick for thinking 
of things.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A PICNIC. 

ERTIE felt rather queer when he got home 
that day. His head ached a little, and he 
was not much disposed to eat his dinner. 
He did not care about going out any more, 
and by and by he stole down-stairs to his old haunt, 
the library window-seat, and established himself com- 
fortably there. 

He had not been seen in that place so much of 
late as he had been at first. Latterly his frequent 
visits to the next house had taken up a great deal of 
his time, and he was out of doors for the greater part 
of these warm summer days. Then Phil and Queenie 
often came to see him, and at such times the children 
were not allowed to leave the nurseries except to play 
in the garden. The liberty granted to Bertie himself 
was not accorded to his friends. 



A PICNIC. 


85 


So he had been little to the library of late, and 
when he found himself thlre again he heaved a sigh 
of contentment, as if he had somehow found a haven 
of refuge for himself. The Squire was not in his 
room when Bertie found his way there; but he came 
in a little bit later, and his grave, stern face seemed 
to soften as his glance rested upon the figure of the 
child. 

He did not speak, however, only crossed the room, 
and stood for a few moments in the embrasure of the 
window, his hand resting kindly upon the head of 
the little boy. 

It was more of a caress than Bertie had ever before 
received from his benefactor, and it seemed to give 
him courage; for when the Squire seated himself in 
his chair with the newspaper, Bertie followed and 
took a footstool at his feet, leaning his tired head 
against the Squire’s knee; and in that position he 
quickly fell asleep. 

When he began to awake, he found himself on 
somebody’s knee, a kind arm encircling him, and his 
head resting comfortably upon a supporting shoulder. 
Half-sleeping, half-waking, the child moved a little, 
and said, dreamily, — 

“Grandpapa — where’s mother?” 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


1 86 

It was the first time the child had ever named any 
relative. He had called the Squire “grandpapa” as 
if by instinct, and had appeared when he first came 
to have some association with that name, but he had 
never spoken of either father or mother, and it had 
sometimes seemed doubtful whether he had ever 
known a parent’s love at all. 

The Squire waited silently, hoping he would say 
more, but Bertie’s eyes began to open then, and, 
after a few seconds of great bewilderment, he ap- 
peared to recollect himself, and pressed his hand to 
his head, as if to quiet the confusion of his brain. 

“Does your head ache, Bertie?” 

“Yes, grandpapa. I think dreaming makes it ache 
worse.” 

“What were you dreaming about?” 

But he shook his head with a look of distress. 

“ I can’t remember.” 

“Never mind, then; dreams are silly things, not 
worth remembering. Go to sleep again, and sleep 
the headache away.” 

Bertie was very comfortable ; but it dawned upon 
him that he had never sat like this upon the Squire’s 
knee before. 

“I’m afraid I’m in your way,” he said, sleepily. 


A PICNIC. 


IS/ 


“ Go to sleep, child, go to sleep,” was the rejoinder; 
and Bertie obeyed in such good earnest that when he 
next aw T oke it was to find himself in his own bed, and 
the morning sunshine streaming in through the un- 
curtained window. He had actually slept all the rest 
of the day and all the night, and woke up as gay 
as a lark and as fresh as a kitten. So that, when 
the ponies came to the door and Phil ran in with 
his invitation to the picnic, Bertie was eager to 
join the pleasure party, and rushed off to the 
library to ask leave with a face as bright as the 
sunny morning. 

The Squire was very kind : he gave a ready assent 
to the proposal, and came himself to the front door 
to lift the child into the saddle and to “pay his 
respects to Miss Queenie,” as he called it. When he 
saw how well the boy sat, how at home he seemed 
on the spirited pony, and how easily he managed his 
reins and whip, he nodded approvingly, and said, — 
“So, so, Master Bertie, you have not forgotten 
your riding. We must see about a pony for you one 
of these fine days.” 

Bertie flushed with pleasure, and as the children 
rode away together Queenie said, — 

“Pie’s a very kind old man, isn’t he?” 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


I S3 

“ He’s very kind to me,” answered Bertie, emphati- 
cally, — “very kind indeed !” 

“Is he going to adopt you?” asked the little girl, 
who was not always very quick to see when she gave 
pain by her words. 

Bertie flushed painfully. 

‘*1 don’t know,” he answered, and the tears sparkled 
in his eyes. 

“People say he will,” asserted Queenie, “unless 
anybody finds out who you really are. Dr. Lighton 
isn’t half so sure about your ever remembering for 
yourself as he was at first.” 

“Oh, you’ll remember fast enough, never fear!” 
cut in Phil, whose feelings in some things were 
quicker than his little sister’s. “You’ll wake up 
some fine morning with it all as plain as a pikestaff’, 
and meantime it won’t be half bad to be adopted by 
the Squire.” 

Bertie said nothing. He always felt sad when his 
forgotten past was brought up and discussed ; but he 
knew that Phil meant kindly, and was much obliged 
by his friendly words. 

.As they rode on over the level roads through the 
bright sunshine, and with the fresh breeze whistling 
in their ears, they all grew merry and cheerful. 


A PICNIC. 


189 


Bertie was delighted with his pony, Phil was as full 
of fun and chatter as a monkey, and Queenie, though 
rather inclined to be “ on her high horse,” was too 
pleased at the prospect of the picnic to be cross to 
Bertie. 

He felt sure she was not quite friendly towards 
him by the way she laughed at any blunders he 
might make and teased him whenever she had the 
chance ; but he always considered it Queenie’s privi- 
lege to plague him, and submitted to it with great 
humility. 

At length they reached their destination, and Bertie 
was very much impressed by the change in the char- 
acter of the coast as they approached. The level 
sands with which he was so well acquainted had been 
gradually merged in tracts of rocky coast of a wild 
and strange formation ; and as they proceeded on- 
wards the rocks grew higher and higher, until they 
became great frowning cliffs, sometimes jutting far 
out into the sea, in other places sweeping inwards 
and forming great coves or bays, many of which were 
floored by the loveliest white sand or by pebbles of 
every color of the rainbow. 

Bertie thought he had never before seen anything 
so beautiful, and he rode along- for the last few miles 


90 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


in a sort of dream of wonder and delight, feeling 
quite lifted out of himself by the beauty of all 
he saw. 

At last they reached the bay that was to be their 
goal, and reined up their ponies at the top of the 
cliff. Far away in the distance they saw a boat 
slowly rowing through the blue waves. It was 
plain it could not reach the bay for at least half 
an hour. 

“Ha, ha!” laughed Phil, triumphantly. “I told 
those other fellows that we should be here the first. 
Now, get off, you two, and I’ll take the ponies to a 
farmhouse I know close by, and then we’ll find the 
path and climb down it, so as to be waiting for them 
when they come.” 

Phil led off the three ponies, and Queenie and 
Bertie were left standing on the cliffs together. The 
little girl began fastening up her long riding-skirt by 
means of cleverly-arranged loops and buttons devised 
by nurse to keep it out of her way whilst she was 
climbing about the rocks, and Bertie went down on 
his knees to help her, and as she condescended to 
permit his attentions he asked, timidly, — 

“Are you cross with me, Queenie?” 

Queenie made a little disdainful gesture. 


A PICNIC. 1 91 

“ Cross ? What a question ! Do you think I 
should ask you to come with us if I were?” 

“ I thought you seemed rather vexed,” explained 
Bertie, with gravity. 

“Well, it would serve you right, I think, if I were,” 
she answered, judicially. “You know you were 
horribly stupid yesterday.” 

“I’m afraid I was,” he answered, meekly; “only I 
can't help being so frightened on the water ; I do try 
not to mind, — I do indeed, — but trying doesn’t seem 
any good.” 

Queenie smiled rather severely. 

“Well, if you can't help it, you can’t, I suppose. 
But you can help being a hypocrite, I hope.” 

Bertie looked much astonished. 

“A hypocrite !” 

“Yes; you know what that is, don’t you?” 

“Yes — but — I didn’t know I was one. I don’t 
understand you, Queenie.” 

“Don’t you? Well, I can soon explain. Do you 
remember when Phil ran away from school and was 
going, to hide and have a lot of fun, what a fuss you 
made about being brave and not afraid of things, and 
how you spoilt everything by making him tell papa 
straight out? Well, after all that lecturing, of course, 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


192 

I expected you to be as brave as a lion yourself, 
instead of which you turn out a horrid little, coward, 
and nearly get the boys into a great big row because 
you are such a coward. That’s the sort of thing I 
hate!” and the little lady stamped her foot impe- 
riously, having talked herself into a good deal of ex- 
citement. “I like people to be brave, not to talk 
brave, and then turn awful cowards when the time 
comes to try.” 

Bertie stood humbly before the angry little girl, 
feeling very much subdued by her vehemence, and 
not at all inclined to defend himself. He felt that 
there was a certain amount of injustice in the charge 
brought against him. He knew in his heart that he 
was not such a dreadful coward as she thought him, 
although he could not control his terror in a boat. 
But her argument was put in a fashion that made it 
difficult to answer ; and it was only after a very long 
pause that he said, slowly, — 

“ I don’t think I should be a coward about other 
things. Can’t you give me something else to do that 
isn’t going in a boat?” 

Queenie quite approved of being appealed to in 
this way. She liked to feel her power over Bertie, 
and her face relaxed its severity. After a little pause 


A PICNIC. I93 

she approached a few paces nearer to the little boy, 
and asked, in a low and mysterious tone, — 

“ Should you be afraid to climb about the cliffs to 
look for sea-gulls’ eggs or young birds?” 

Bertie looked both eager and astonished. 

“No, I don’t think so,” he answered, glancing down 
the rugged face of the cliff, which showed numbers 
of rough ledges and natural rocky steps, very tempt- 
ing to boys with steady heads and a natural aptitude 
for climbing. “Do you mean now — to-day?” 

“No,” answered Queenie, laying her finger on her 
lips and looking cautiously round her. “ It’s a great 
secret, and you mustn’t say a word to anybody. 
But when the spring comes Phil and I are going 
to come here and try and get some young sea- 
gulls, — David will tell us the best places, — and if 
you can promise to be brave, perhaps you may 
come too.” 

Bertie looked eager and excited. He had a good 
deal of innate daring and love of adventure, little 
though some of his companions guessed it, and a 
hunt about those grim, rocky cliffs seemed to him 
the most attractive of schemes. 

“Oh, shouldn’t I like that!” he cried. “I’ll prac- 
tise climbing every day till the spring comes. I’d 


194 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


like to catch a pair of gulls for the Squire too. I 
heard him say once that he wanted some, to eat the 
snails in the kitchen garden. Can’t we find some, 
to-day, Queenie? Why must we wait till the 
spring?” 

“Phil says there are no young birds now; they’ve 
all got big and flown away. We must wait till some 
more are hatched — that will be in the spring. I’m 
glad you’re not afraid, Bertie. You shall come with 
us, and perhaps David too ; but you mustn’t say any- 
thing to the rest. We want it to be a secret, and if 
they know they’ll tell everybody, or let it out by 
accident, and then” — she stopped suddenly and 
added, with a little laugh, “then it would all be 
spoiled, and they would get all the fun ; but it’s 
Phil’s secret and mine, and you must promise not to 
tell anybody.” 

“Of course not,” answered Bertie, promptly; “I 
won’t say a word to anybody.” 

And then Phil came back, and led the way down 
to the sandy bay beneath by means of a steep narrow 
path not known to many save the fisher-people of 
that coast. 

The boat came in a little while after they had 
reached the shore, and the hampers of good things 


A PICNIC. 


195 


were landed ; and a capital picnic they all had sitting 
on the smooth white sand beneath the shadow of the 
jagged cliffs. 

Uncle Fred was a capital companion for children, 
and was coaxed into telling stories of his adventures 
by land and sea, to which they all listened with undi- 
vided attention, although many of them had heard 
the best stories again and again. Time sped away 
“twice too fast,” as Phil declared, and it was time to 
go long before anybody wanted to move. 

Phil, however, had made good use of his time, and 
had found out from David a good deal about sea- 
gulls and their habits. The fisherman’s boy knew a 
great deal about the ways of the wild creatures of 
the coast, and could answer all Phil’s questions in a 
very satisfactory way. 

When the boat had started off, Phil turned to 
Queenie and said, — 

“We needn’t go for half an hour yet. I want to 
try my hand at climbing.” 

“So do I!” cried Bertie, eagerly; and Queenie 
told how Bertie had been let into the plan and had 
promised to keep the secret. 

“All right!” cried Phil; “I think Bertie’s safe 
enough. Now for a little practice.” 


196 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


The boys threw off their jackets and began climb- 
ing the craggy face of the cliff. It was hard work, 
and it cut their hands a little ; but they found it quite 
possible, with pains and caution, to mount from one 
ledge to another, and also to descend again, though 
this was by no means so easy. Queenie watched 
them eagerly and approvingly, and was obliged to 
admit that Bertie was not at all nervous or timid 
in climbing, and was quite as clever and agile 
as Phil. 

They had not time to do much climbing to-day, 
however, but they satisfied themselves that the face 
of the cliff did not present any very terrible difficul- 
ties, and they determined to ride over by themselves 
soon and have another preparatory scramble. 

“The worst thing is, though,” said Phil, when at 
last they had turned their backs on the coast and 
were trotting quietly along in the direction of home, 
“that David says the birds always choose the most 
difficult places possible for their nests. Most of them 
build in places we couldn’t get at anyhow without 
ropes and all kinds of things ; but some aren’t so bad, 
and there always are young birds hatched among 
those ledges every year, only the old birds are very 
fierce, and it isn’t always easy to rob them.” 


A PICNIC. 197 

Nevertheless, and in spite of all difficulties, the 
three children were quite determined that, when the 
right season came on, they would visit together one 
of those craggy coves, and not return without a prize 
of eggs and young birds from the nests of the 
sea-gulls. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


AUTUMN DAYS. 

UMMER merged into autumn almost be- 
fore any one was aware of the change, 
and with the advance of the season came 
changes in the life of little Bertie. 

The Arbuthnot boys went back to school, and Sir 
Walter took his wife and little daughter away to 
Scotland, where he possessed a shooting-box, and 
Queenie told her playfellow that she did not know 
when they would be back, for her mother had talked 
of paying a round of visits during the winter months, 
and, unless they came home for the boys’ Christmas 
holidays, it was quite possible they might remain 
away in one place or another until the spring came 
round again. 

Queenie was pleased and excited at the thought 
of all the changes and amusements in store for her. 



AUTUMN DAYS. 


199 


She had been used to a London life, and had thought 
the country just a little dull. She liked the idea 
of going about with her parents and paying visits 
at country houses, for she always made her way 
wherever she went, and was quite a’ pet and play- 
thing to grown-up people, to whose company she 
was well used. 

So she talked a good deal of anticipated delights, 
and pitied “poor Bertie” a good deal, wondering 
whatever he would find to do all through the long 
winter months, with nobody to play with “except 
that fisher-boy, David.” 

Bertie, however, did not seem at all put out by the 
prospect of his loneliness, as depicted by Queenie. 
He smiled when she pitied him, and said, — 

“Oh, never mind me; I shall be quite happy. I 
don’t mind being alone. Besides, there is always the 
Squire, you know.” 

“But he doesn’t play with you.” 

“No,” answered Bertie, with his grave smile, “he 
doesn’t play;” and then the little boy smiled again, 
as if such an idea amused him. 

“And he doesn’t talk much either, does he?” 

“No, not much.” 

“And you don’t see him often?” 


200 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


* “Not very often, perhaps; but I can always sit in 
his library when I like.” 

“Well,” remarked Queenie, tossing back her curly 
head, “I can’t quite see what good the Squire can 
be to you, if he doesnh: play, and doesn’t talk, and 
only lets you sit in his library.” 

Bertie smiled again in the way that Queenie never 
quite understood. 

“I like him to be just as he is,” answered the little 
boy. “I shouldn’t like him to be a bit different. 
He is just right, I think.” 

Queenie looked puzzled. 

“You’re a very odd child, Bertie. I often say so, 
and so do other people.” 

“Am I?” he answered, meekly. “I don’t know 
why.” 

“ I can’t explain quite,” returned Queenie, nodding 
her head, “ but you are.” 

Bertie, however, was not at all disturbed by this 
opinion, nor did he consider himself such an object 
of compassion as Queenie evidently did. He cer- 
tainly missed his little companion when she was really 
gone, but he did not fret or worry himself over his 
loneliness, but quietly resumed the solitary habits that 
he had fallen into before he had found his new friends. 


AUTUMN DAYS. 


201 


His mind was much clearer and more active now 
than when he had first recovered from his long sleep 
of unconsciousness, and, although his memory had 
not returned, he had lost for the most part that 
aching sense of loss and blankness that had weighed 
upon him like a leaden weight at first. 

He was beginning to have a little past of his own, 
on which his thoughts could dwell. He had friends 
amongst the animals upon the place. A big black 
Newfoundland dog called Samson was a great source 
of delight to him, and an Alderney cow, and the 
Squire’s great bay horse were alike objects of deep 
interest and affection. 

But the child’s love and admiration, as well as his 
imagination, were chiefly and mainly occupied with 
the Squire himself. Bertie’s was one of those natures 
that seem to require a central interest and object in 
life. He wanted something to think about, some- 
thing to dream about, somebody to love in his 
quiet, undemonstrative fashion, somebody who would 
satisfy the imaginative and poetical side of his tem- 
perament. And this object, — strange as it might 
appear to some, he found in the quiet and matter-of- 
fact Squire of Arlingham. 

During the lengthening autumn evenings, when 


202 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


the lamp in the nursery was lighted early, and the 
fire attracted Bertie to a cosey position upon the rug, 
when the kettle sang cheerily upon the hob, and the 
cat purred contentedly upon the child’s lap, and 
Mrs. Pritchard’s busy needles clicked together with 
the pleasant regularity of the practised knitter, then 
would come a time of deep enjoyment for Bertie, 
when his kind friend the housekeeper would tell him 
long stories of the Squire’s boyhood and youth, of 
his happy married life, and the deep sorrow that had 
fallen upon him and changed the proud and loving 
husband and father into the grave, stern, silent man, 
widowed and childless, that Arlingham knew so well 
now. 

And Bertie listened to this story again and again, 
until it seemed absolutely to belong to his own past. 
It seemed to him as if he had always known the 
Squire. He studied the portraits in the long gallery 
until he knew each one by heart. He could see the 
Squrie as a curly-headed boy, with his pony and his 
dog, as a tall, handsome man in his scarlet hunting- 
coat, with his great whip in his hand ; he could see 
him a year or two later with a pair of fine lads beside 
him ; and, best of all, he knew him as he now was, a 
white-headed, keen-eyed, silent man, very grave and 


AUTUMN DAYS. 


203 


rather severe, despite his kindness of heart, a man to 
be reverenced and perhaps a little feared, as well as 
loved, towards whom the child felt an increasing 
sense of attraction. 

The Squire fascinated his imagination as much as 
he won his heart, and the central thought in his mind 
each day was how much he should see of his bene- 
factor, how much he could talk to him, and what he 
would say when he did talk. 

Bertie was very shy of showing his feelings. He 
had that innate tact and sensibility not uncommon 
with children, that told him exactly how to speak and 
act in presence of his elders. He felt by instinct 
that any open demonstrations of affection would be 
unwelcome, that he must copy in his childish way 
the Squire’s quietness and reserve; but he could 
make little quiet, timid advances from time to time, 
and these were never repulsed, and the tacit way in 
which they were accepted often brought a pleasant 
sense of warmth to the child’s heart, taking away for 
the moment all his loneliness and isolation. 

Then, too, he knew all about the little children who 
once had made the silent house ring with their merry 
voices and laughter, who had just begun to develop 
into big, handsome lads and winning maidens when 


204 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


the call home had come and laid them sleeping side 
by side in the quiet churchyard. Bertie often felt as 
if he had actually played with Tom and Charley, had 
heard Mary and Violet practising their music on the 
schoolroom piano, and had petted the “baby” of the 
house, little Donald, as every else petted him, accord- 
ing to Mrs. Pritchard. He knew every event of their 
lives as detailed to him by the fond old nurse. He 
studied the crayon heads upon the walls, until each 
face was like that of some familiar friend and play- 
fellow. He kept their toy cupboards in perfect order, 
never mixing Charley’s things with Tom’s, or Mary’s 
with Violet’s ; and their story-books, battered and 
torn as they were, attracted him more than any of 
the bright new volumes of boys’ tales that arrived for 
him from time to time from the bookseller’s shop in 
the town. 

Then, too, the “ children’s gardens,” away behind 
the kitchen garden wall, attracted him at this time 
more than any other part of the garden. 

Once they had been neat little plots enough, tended 
with care, watered and watched over with loving 
solicitude; but fifteen years of partial neglect had 
wrought a sad change, and although the gardeners 
kept the weeds from becoming rampant, and main- 


AUTUMN DAYS. 


20 $ 

tamed a certain brightness in the little sunny garden, 
yet it was evidently “ nobody's business” to look after 
the little plot; and it wore — or so Bertie fancied — a 
forlorn and desolate look. 

“Would the Squire let me keep it in order, do you 
think?” he asked of Mrs. Pritchard one day, as they 
stood together beside the attractive spot. 

“Why, yes, for sure, dearie,” answered the old 
housekeeper. “ He would as soon your little fingers 
did the work as the men’s every bit, not to say more. 
But autumn’s a poor kind of time for garden work? 
there’s nothing to show for it till the spring comes.” 

“There are some chrysanthemums to come on 
still,” answered Bertie, gravely; “and the verbenas 
are blooming still, and the marguerites too, and the 
rose-bushes would look nice if the dead leaves and 
flowers were picked off. William says we get no 
frost here till December. I think I could make the 
gardens look quite nice. Tell me which was whose, 
if you remember. I should like to keep them all 
clear.” 

Mrs. Pritchard soon managed to recall all that was 
needful for the identification of each garden. There 
were four little plots, for the baby of the house had 
not been promoted to the honor of a garden of his 


20 6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


own ; but the rest were soon made out clearly enough, 
and on the very next day Bertie set about his task. 
He hoed up all the weeds and raked the brown earth 
nicely over ; he trimmed the box edging, and thinned 
it out a little, so as to have enough to make a 
division between each separate garden ; and he 
collected a number of white smooth stones from the 
shore in order to write the name of each proprietor 
in the dark soil. 

It took him some days to get all to his liking; but 
he worked with a will, and was never wearied of his 
self-imposed task. 

The gardener, who watched him at his toil; helped 
him with advice and occasional assistance, and gave 
him some hardy flowering plants from pots, to lend 
a temporary brightness to his plot. 

Bertie was very proud of his handiwork by the 
week’s end ; and his final triumph was the writing of 
the names in white stones along the edge of each 
little garden. David had been very zealous in 
collecting pebbles of suitable size and color, and 
Bertie set about this final work with great good will. 
When all was done he brought Mrs. Pritchard to see, 
and was much edified by her praise of his care and 
neatness. 


AUTUMN DAYS. 


20 7 


“Why, it looks like old times, so it do, for sure,” 
she exclaimed, as she saw the neatly-weeded plots, 
each with its own well-trimmed plants still bearing 
the last of its blooms ; but the good woman’s face 
looked a little grave as she saw the names traced 
there. “And for what did you do that, dearie?” 
she asked, a little uneasily. 

Bertie looked up quickly. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” 

Mrs. Pritchard hesitated for a reply. 

“Well, I don’t just know why you shouldn’t; only 
it struck me as perhaps the Squire would not be best 
pleased. You see, he never names them now, nor 
never has done. It seems to hurt him like.” 

Bertie looked down at his letters and then up at 
Mrs. Pritchard. 

“But he can’t have forgotten,” he said, — “I’m sure 
he hasn’t forgotten.” 

“Bless your little heart! it isn’t that he forgets, 
but that he thinks too much.” 

“Thinks of them, you mean?” questioned Bertie, 
indicating the four names he had written. 

“Yes, of them as have gone before. Poor man, I 
doubt if they’re ever long out of his thoughts.” 

Bertie looked up very gravely. 


208 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“And if he is always thinking of them, he can’t 
mind seeing their names written. Perhaps he would 
like it; perhaps he would be pleased that somebody 
else thought of them and loved them too.” 

Mrs. Pritchard wiped her eyes with the corner of 
her pocket-handkerchief. 

“Well, for sure, a child knows best sometimes, as 
I do always say. We’ll let them stay any way, dearie. 
I doubt if the poor master ever so much as walks this 
way now.” 

Bertie did not know. He had never seen the Squire 
in this part of the garden. Perhaps he avoided the 
plot of ground which his dead children had once 
frequented so much. 

It was Saturday when the gardens were finally put 
to rights, and Bertie’s week of toil had done him 
good, and made him feel more of a man. The 
weather had been bright and fine, and he had been 
able to be out most of the daylight hours, so he had 
seen less of the Squire than usual. 

But Sunday was Bertie’s best time for making way 
in that quarter. The Squire was at leisure, for one 
thing; then he always took the child to church in 
the morning, and the two dined together after service, 
as Bertie had once petitioned to do. Not much con- 


AUTUMN UAYS. 


269 

versation went on as a rule between this oddly-assorted 
couple ; but Bertie enjoyed his Sundays immensely, 
and looked forward to them all through the week. 

As they sat at table together on this particular 
day, Bertie asked a question. 

“Didn’t the clergyman say that there would be 
service in the afternoon now, instead of in the 
evening?” 

“Yes; it changes in winter months always.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the evenings are so dark, and the poor 
people from the farms, who have a long way to come, 
can hardly find their way.” 

“ Do you always go in the afternoon the same as 
in the evening?” 

“Yes, certainly.” 

“May I go with you, please?” 

The Squire hesitated. 

“I think not to-day — not until I have asked Dr. 
Lighton what he thinks.” 

Bertie looked surprised. 

“I’m not ill,” he said. 

“No; but Dr. Lighton has his own ideas about 
you. I cannot take you with me this afternoon.” 

Bertie never disputed the Squire’s final verdict; 


210 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


he accepted it as an oracle. But he looked a little 
disappointed, and sat very still, with his eyes upon 
his plate. Suddenly a bright thought seemed to 
strike him, and he looked up eagerly.” 

“Well?” asked the Squire, seeing that a request 
was trembling on the child’s lips. 

“ May I come to the church in time to walk home 
with you afterwards?” 

Again Bertie fancied that there was a pause of 
hesitation before the answer came. 

“Do you wish it very much?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“ Very well. I shall be out of church by soon after 
four; but I am often detained a little. You may 
meet me by the gate of the path through the wood 
at twenty minutes past four. Wait for me there if I 
do not come at once, and we will take a walk together 
then.” 

Bertie’s face flushed with pleasure. 

“ Oh, thank you, grandpa ! That will be very nice 
indeed!” 

A walk with the Squire was a rare treat; and 
Bertie looked forward to it with a pleasure he could 
not have explained. He knew beforehand that there 
would be no conversation. They would walk side by 


AUTUMN DAYS. 


21 1 


side, he trying hard to emulate the long strides of 
his big companion. Most children would have done 
much to avoid so dreary a promenade ; but Bertie 
was delighted at the prospect, and wished he could 
hurry on the time. 

He watched from the staircase window whilst the 
Squire strode off towards the church ; and then he 
hurried up-stairs to ask Mrs. Pritchard to let him 
have his overcoat and cap, for he had a plan in his 
head that he wished to carry out before his appoint- 
ment with the Squire. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE GRAVE IN THE CHURCHYARD. 

ERTIE set out upon his ramble that Sun- 
day afternoon with a definite plan in his 
head. 

Although it was now November, the air 
was mild and sunny, and the tints upon the oak trees 
still glowed golden and almost scarlet as the light 
touched them and brought out all their varying hues. 

Bertie looked about him as he moved with a sense 
of keen enjoyment. He had grown to love very 
dearly the home that had been his in the new life, — 
the only one he had ever known, as it seemed to him 
now, — and he did not hurry through the park, for 
he had plenty of time before him. 

He took a quiet, rarely traversed pathway that cut 
diagonally across the Squire’s estate and led towards 



THE GRAVE IN THE CHURCHYARD. 


213 


the village and the church. The rabbits, startled at 
the sound of his footsteps, scuttled away or darted 
across his path as he moved, and the child smiled as 
he watched their little white scuts vanishing down a 
friendly hole. But the rabbits and he were very good 
friends on the whole, and many amongst them did 
not condescend to fly from him, but sat up at a little 
distance and stared at him with their round, black, 
bead-like eyes. 

The dead leaves rustled and crackled pleasantly 
beneath the child’s feet as he moved. The birds had 
begun to sing again, after their long summer silence. 
The rooks were noisy in the tree-tops above him, 
and the sound of the church bells were musical in 
the soft air. 

The bells soon stopped ringing, however, but there 
were other pleasant sounds telling of Nature’s peace- 
ful life all round. 

Sheep bleated and cattle lowed in the level fields 
lying westward, whilst from the east came the ‘soft, 
ceaseless murmur of the ocean, that mysterious, 
inexplicable voice that is never silent, and yet whose 
secret language no man has ever yet been able to 
interpret. 

Bertie walked onwards in a state of dreamy con- 


214 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


tentment. The air was very clear and blue and 
sunny, the sky overhead was free from all cloud, but 
in the west there was vapor enough to give to the 
slowly-declining sun a new glory of form and color, 
which would increase as the day drew to its close. 

Bertie was repeating to himself some words that 
had haunted him with greater or less persistance ever 
since he had heard them many months ago now. 

“I will be with thee: I will not fail thee, nor for- 
sake thee. Be strong and of a good courage ; be 
not afraid, neither be dismayed : for the Lord thy 
God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” 

Bertie said those words over two or three times to 
himself, and a smile suddenly shone over his face. 

“I do think He is,” he said, half aloud. “If he 
hasn’t done quite what I asked, He’s been very, very 
kind to me. He’s sent me to people who are good 
and who love me, and I might have been so miserable. 
He is good and kind; He doesn’t ever forget us 
quite. I’ll try always to be strong and of a good 
courage, and not to be afraid of anything. I think 
He’s sure to go on taking care of me, as He’s always 
been so kind.” 

And Bertie went on his way with a contented 
smile, feeling very safe and happy in the sense of 


THE GRAVE IN THE CHURCHYARD. 21 5 

the loving protection of the great Father in heaven. 
His destination was the churchyard, and as he 
approached he glanced up at the clock in the tower, 
and saw that he had plenty of time at his disposal 
before he should have to meet the Squire at the gate 
he had mentioned as the trysting-place. 

He heard the muffled sound of the organ and voices 
from within the ancient building, but all without was 
still and deserted, and he could prosecute his search 
unseen. 

What was it in that quiet graveyard that the child 
had come to see? 

Nothing more or less than the grave of which Mrs. 
Pritchard sometimes spoke with tears, where the 
mother and five children lay sleeping, all laid to rest 
together within the space of one short week. 

With quiet, reverent steps Bertie picked his way 
among the silent graves. A strange sense of loneli- 
ness had fallen upon him, and yet he was not afraid. 
He felt as if he were quite alone in this great Sabbath 
, calm and stillness, with only the graves of those who 
had gone to keep him company. 

“ Under the great yew tree at the south corner.” 
These had been Mrs. Pritchard’s words when Bertie 
had asked her where the grave stood that held the 


21 6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Squire’s dear ones, and by this description he guided 
his steps. 

Yes, there it was, just as Mrs. Pritchard had de- 
scribed — a simple slab of marble beneath the pro- 
tecting shape of the ancient yew tree. There were 
all the familiar names — names that were now as 
those of familiar comrades. Bertie read them one by 
one with an odd dreaminess stealing over him. He 
sat down upon a low bough of the great tree and 
gazed at the marble slab with wide-open, abstracted 
eyes. 

Where were they all now, those children who had 
laughed and played up and down the corridors of 
his present home, and had made the silent house 
ring again with their merry romps and happy voices? 
They had been children once just his age, perhaps 
they too had known just such thoughts as so often 
crowded into his busy brain. They had seen the 
same things that he looked on day by day ; surely 
they must once have been very like him, and known 
just those very same feelings and longings as he 
experienced. 

And where were they all now? What did they 
think of the bright world they had left behind ? Was 
all forgotten as if it never had existed? or did the 


THE GRAVE IN THE CHURCHYARD. 2iy 

children who had never lived to grow old look down 
sometimes with smiling eyes upon the happy home 
they had left, and perhaps spare a loving glance for 
the little boy who loved them all without ever having 
seen them? 

These thoughts crowded fast upon Bertie as he 
sat still in the dark yew tree. What was death? he 
asked himself again and again — the death that had 
come so very near him once, and had almost grasped 
its prey. What was it? What became of those who 
were taken away from this world ! Where did they 
go, the children who never grew up ? 

And a voice in his own heart answered so clearly 
and softly, that the child was quite startled. 

“ Suffer the little children to come unto Me : for 
of such is the kingdom of heaven.” 

Bertie lifted his head and looked round ; but there 
was no one near, and he smiled at his passing fear. 

“They are in heaven,” he said softly to himself, 
“with Jesus — I suppose it is always heaven where 
He is. They must be very happy. I hope I shall 
go there some day. I wonder if I shall know them 
when I do. I feel as if I should.” 

The thought of having in heaven some children 
who seemed almost like living friends was a strange 


218 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


and rather solemn one to the little boy. It filled him 
with a sense of mingled happiness and awe, and he 
looked again at the names upon the tombstone, and 
read them slowly one by one. 

And then his eye was caught by four words, stand- 
ing quite alone at the foot of the stone : 

“Thy will be done.” 

Bertie covered his face with his hands and sank 
into a sort of dream, which he could not possibly 
have put into words. Strange thoughts and flitting 
memories crowded in upon his brain, and he shut 
out all outward sights, and was deaf to all outward 
sounds, and knew nothing more until he was suddenly 
aroused by feeling himself touched very gently, and 
his own hands taken away from his face 

“What is the matter, my little man?” 

It was the Squire’s voice that spoke, and it was the 
Squire himself who was now standing before him, 
beside the quiet grave. 

Bertie looked up with bewildered eyes and said 
nothing. 

“Why are you here, my child?” 

The voice was so gentle that it helped Bertie to 
recover himself. He shook off the curious feeling 
that had oppressed him, and answered, slowly, — 


THE GRAVE IN THE CHURCHYARD. 219 

“ I came here to see the grave.” 

“What made you come?” 

The child looked at the names upon the stone, and 
sudden tears sprang to his eyes. 

“Because I love them all,” he answered, simply, 
and with quivering lips. “ I love them so very much, 
and I wanted to see — where they — ” 

He could not get on any further ; but suddenly he 
found himself lifted up in a pair of strong arms and 
kissed as he had never been kissed in his life before, 
so far as he could remember. 

The Squire had taken Bertie's seat upon the strong 
arm of the yew tree, and the child was pressed very 
closely to his heart. 

“And so you love them all, do you, my child?” 

Bertie nodded vehemently. 

“Don’t cry, my little man,” said the Squire, kindly. 
What is it that troubles you?” 

Bertie looked up, his soft eyes swimming in tears. 

“I love you too,” he said, tremulously, “and you 
are all alone — ” There was a break in the child’s 
voice, and then he added, “It does seem — as if — 
God might — have left you — one.” 

The Squire bent his head lower over the child’s. 

“My little boy,” he said, very gravely and im- 


220 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


pressively, “I once said that myself; but I have been 
sorry ever since, for the good God knows best ; and 
what He wills always must be right. Do you see 
those four words underneath the names? They were 
not put there at first ; at first I could not say them ; 
but they were added later, when I had learned the 
lesson that all this was sent to teach me ; and since I 
have learned it I have not been alone.” 

Bertie held his breath to catch the low-toned words 
that hardly seemed to be spoken to him, but rather 
as if the strong man were communing with his own 
soul. Bertie’s was a nature that could apprehend 
much more than it could actually understand, and he 
seemed to gain a strange and wonderful insight into 
the nature of this self-contained man. It was as if 
he knew by instinct something of what he had passed 
through. 

He did not speak for some time, and when he did, 
it was with a certain curious assurance. 

“You were strong and of a good courage, I sup- 
pose,” he said, “so of course He did not forsake 
you.” 

The Squire looked down at the little boy. 

“What do you mean, Bertie?” 

“It’s what God said to Joshua, I think. He says 


THE GRAVE IN THE CHURCHYARD. 221 

it to us all : He won’t forget us if we trust in him.” 

“Did you think He had forgotten you, Bertie?” 

The child hung his head. 

“ I think I did once. It was naughty, I know, but 
it did seem rather like it, didn’t it? But I know now 
that He hasn’t.” 

“Why?” 

The child looked up suddenly with one of his rare 
and peculiarly sweet smiles. 

“I think partly because He sent me here to you; 
and you are so very, very kind to me.” 

The Squire looked into the child’s face, a strange 
softening coming into his own. Then he bent his 
head and kissed Bertie’s brow. 

“ Perhaps He has given us to each other to make 
both our lives more bright and less empty.” 

The child looked up quickly, his face flushing with 
keen pleasure. 

“But — but” — he said, tremulously — “how can I 
do anything for you?” 

The Squire’s face was very tender in its expression. 

“Never mind the how or the why, my little man; 
let it be enough that it is so. Say, are you willing to 
help to fill the blank that has been left so long in 
my life?” 


222 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Bertie’s eyes were full of astonishment. Even now 
he half fancied himself dreaming. 

“What can I do?” he asked. 

“You can be a little son to me, if you will. You 
have no parents, and I have no children. Are you 
willing to call yourself my little boy?” 

A great light came into Bertie’s face. He put his 
arms suddenly about the Squire’s neck and laid his 
cheek against that of his adopted father. 

No more words were spoken, and none were 
needed. The compact was sealed without that. 
The strong man and the little child understood each 
other as by instinct, and the bond between them was 
metaphorically signed and sealed by the eloquent 
language of a few caresses. 

Then the Squire stood up and took the child by 
the hand to lead him home. 

They did not go their walk after all. Time had 
run on, and the short daylight was beginning to 
wane. They took the nearest path home across the 
park, and, although hardly a word was spoken, Bertie 
felt as if a sudden new warmth and happiness had 
come into his life ; his little heart was filled to over- 
flowing with love and gratitude. 

As they reached the garden, the Squire turned 


THE GRAVE IN THE CHURCHYARD. 223 

aside, and, still holding Bertie by the hand, led him 
to the well-known spot where the “children’s gar- 
dens” stood beneath the shelter of the sunny wall. 

It was plain that he had heard of Bertie’s labors 
over this patch of land. Perhaps, unknown to all, 
he often visited the gardens that had once been the 
pride and pleasure of his children, as he visited 
Sunday by Sunday, unknown to all, the grave that 
hid his loved ones away from him. Perhaps he had 
watched the child at his labor of love during the 
past week ; at least he expressed no surprise when 
he stood beside the trim enclosure and looked at the 
carefully-tended plots. 

But he pointed to the white stones and asked, — 

“Why the names?” 

And Bertie could explain now, as he could not 
perhaps have done an hour ago. He looked up 
into the Squire’s face and said, in his earnest way, — 

“I was afraid perhaps — some day — that they 
would get forgotten ; when you are dead, you know, 
and I have gone away. I thought somebody else 
might come who wouldn’t know, and who would dig 
up the gardens and take them right away. I didn’t 
want them to do that, so I thought if I put the names 
there, that perhaps people would wonder, and ask 


224 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


whose gardens they were, and then they would hunt 
about and see the names in the churchyard, and 
then they would know that they belonged to the 
children who had all died together long ago, and 
that would make them feel sorry and they would 
tell the gardeners not to disturb these gardens, but 
to keep them nice always, and so Tom and Charley, 
Mary and Violet, would never be quite forgotten.” 

The Squire made no reply; he started a little as 
the long unheard names of his children fell upon 
his ear, but he did not speak, and only took Bertie’s 
hand again and led him towards the house. 

And on the threshold he paused, bent his head 
and kissed him, saying softly and gently, — 

“ My little- ooy now.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


WHAT BERTIE DID. 

NEW life began from that day forward 
for little Bertie. He could hardly have 
defined the change that had passed over 
his head, but he was keenly alive to it 
day by day, and as grateful as he was happy at the 
thing that had come to him. 

He was no longer the lonely little outcast he once 
had been. He was no longer a chance guest in this 
hospitable house, entertained there simply because 
no other home opened to him, and the master was 
too kind-hearted to turn him out upon the mercy of 
a cold world. 

No, he was no longer a desolate little waif and 
stray cast up homeless and desolate by the cold sea- 
waves; he was now the child of the house, tended 



226 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


and loved as if he had been born to the position he 
occupied, and the cloud of depression that had long 
weighed more or less upon him during his sojourn 
there now melted away in the sunshine of the happy 
present. 

It was not that Bertie understood, as some others 
about him did, the great change in his position now 
that he had been adopted by the Squire of Arling- 
ham, a man of considerable means, and with no near 
kindred to call his own. There were many discussions 
in the neighborhood as to the probability of Bertie’s 
becoming his heir, and inheriting eventually such 
property as he had to leave, and succeeding to the 
title of Squire, which had so long been held from 
father to son by the family who dwelt in the Manor 
House ; but the little boy knew nothing of all this, 
he was too young to be troubled by thoughts of such 
a nature. All he knew or cared to know was that he 
was loved by the Squire, whom he had long secretly 
idolized in his heart of hearts, and that he had been 
adopted as a little son, instead of being kindly toler- 
ated as a nameless stranger. 

Bertie was very happy. 

He was not demonstrative in his joy; his temper- 
ament was of a quiet and contemplative kind, more 


WftAT BERTIE DID. 


227 


pfone to silent than noisy indications of happiness ; 
but his face showed plainly the entire contentment 
of his heart, and those who watched him from day 
to day could see how his nature expanded and 
unfolded in the warm atmosphere of “home.” 

His outer life was but little changed in its quiet 
course. He still breakfasted in his nursery, and took 
his early walk either alone or with Mrs. Pritchard. 
He still made his way, on his return, to the Squire’s 
library, as he had been wont to do, to pass an hour 
or two in that quiet retreat. 

But there was a little difference now in the line of 
conduct he adopted when there. He used to enter 
the room very quietly, and pause for a moment 
beside the door, to see if any notice was taken of 
his appearance. Sometimes the Squire would give 
him a smile and a nod, and thus dismiss him to his 
nook, sometimes he would hold out his hand and say 
a kind word or two or ask a few questions as to his 
well-being; whilst upon other days he would take 
no notice at all of the child’s entrance, but continue 
his writing without so much as looking up, and then 
Bertie would creep on tip-toe to his window-seat and 
remain there as still as a mouse so long as this mood 
of absorption lasted. 


228 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


That had been what passed in old days ; but now 
all was changed. 

Bertie entered the library each day with a beam- 
ing face and shining eyes. He walked straight up to 
the Squire and put his little arms about his neck, 
and books and papers were all pushed to one side 
for a happy ten minutes, whilst the newly-found 
father took his little adopted son upon his knees, 
and talked to him as only fathers can. 

And then came the business of the morning. 

“We must try and make up for lost time now, 
Bertie,” said the Squire one day, very soon after this 
change in their relations to one another. “We must 
not be idle any longer, or we shall be growing up a 
little dunce.” 

Bertie looked up quickly and smiled. 

“I write copies every day for Mrs. Pritchard,” he 
said, “ and I read to her in the evenings, and she 
takes the book when I’ve done, and makes me spell 
the hard words. I’ve done some sums, too, out of 
Charley’s book. I’d like to do more lessons. I 
don’t want to be a dunce !” 

The Squire patted his head. 

“No, no, I’m sure we don’t; and Dr. Lighton 
has no objection to short hours and easy tasks. We 


WHAT BERTIE DID. 


229 


will leave the reading and writing and spelling to 
Mrs. Pritchard, but I will take the arithmetic and 
Latin. Do you think you have ever learnt any 
Latin?” 

“Hie — haec — hoc!” said Bertie, suddenly, and as 
suddenly stopped short. 

The Squire smiled. 

“Perhaps it will come back to you; you did not 
forget your reading and writing, and Dr. Lighton 
tells me you can speak French.” 

Bertie nodded. 

“ I could talk to that funny old sailor who came 
here last month ; I understood him quite well. I 
think I must have lived once in France. Do they 
wear red caps there and blue jerseys, and sing when 
they take their boats down the river? I feel as If I’d 
dreamed something like that once.” 

“Or seen it, perhaps,” answered the Squire. “I 
think you know more about France than I do. 
Well, we must keep up the French as best we can, 
and see how far the Latin goes. I daresay you can 
find a grammar amongst the books up-stairs you 
seem to know so well.” 

Bertie darted away, and soon returned with the 
desired book. 


230 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“It’s Tom’s!” he cried, displaying it eagerly; “I 
always know Tom’s books from Charley’s, because 
they’re so much more untidy. See, he’s burnt his 
name on this one with the poker. I wonder if any- 
body scolded him for spoiling the cover?” 

The Squire sat quite still for a few minutes, with 
his eyes upon the book. His mind was far away in 
the past. He was unconscious for a short time of 
all outward impressions. It was so many, many 
years since he had looked upon or handled any of 
the possessions of his lost children. An odd thrill 
ran through him, and yet it was not all pain. Indeed, 
there seemed something soothing and healing in the 
sense that he was about to use one of the familiar 
books that had belonged to the buried past. That 
battered Latin grammar brought back a host of memo- 
ries to the mind that for fifteen long years had striven 
to banish them, and yet these memories brought with 
them now almost as much of pleasure as of pain. 

Bertie did not disturb the Squire’s reverie by one 
word. He seemed to know by intuition that he was 
thinking of his dead son ; and by and by, in token 
of his unspoken sympathy, the child bent his head 
and pressed his soft cheek against the hand that still 
held the old book. 






WHAT BERTIE DID. 


231 


Then the Squire awoke from his dream, and put 
his arm about the little boy. 

“Now let us see how much you know,” he said, 
in his usual quiet way; “let us see if you ever 
learned anything like this before.” 

And after this fashion Bertie’s education began. 

Every morning brought its hours of study in the 
library, and as Bertie loved his books, and was bent 
above all things on pleasing the Squire, he progressed 
rapidly, having evidently been well grounded before, 
and being able to push on at a great rate. 

Then there were other pleasures in store for 
him too, for one day the Squire said, quite 
suddenly, — 

“You must begin to learn something of farming, 
if you are to be my little boy, Bertie. Can you be 
ready every fine morning at nine o’clock to come 
round the place with me when I go to see after 
things?” 

Bertie’s face glowed with pleasure as he gave a 
glad assent; and behold, upon the very next morn- 
ing he found himself arrayed in extra strong boots 
and tanned leather leggings up to his knees, “just 
like papa’s” as he proudly remarked to Pritchard in 
the hall, and with his top-coat buttoned well up and 


232 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


his dog-whip in his hand, he awaited the Squire in a 
a state of joyous impatience. 

Just as the clock struck nine, the dining-room 
door opened, and out he came, and Bertie’s kiss and 
greeting that morning were more joyously child-like 
than perhaps they had ever been before. 

The great dog Sam was as pleased as anybody at 
an arrangement that did not divide his allegiance, 
and hand in hand, with the dog at their heels, the 
Squire and his little adopted son commenced their 
round of the farm and stables. 

This part of the premises was quite new to Bertie. 
He had had leave to ramble anywhere about the 
garden, but he had never been told that he might 
visit the yard or the farm ; and, with his ingrained 
sense of obedience, he had never allowed himself to 
trespass without leave,- although he had many times 
wished he might investigate the mysteries of those 
many long sheds and high brick walls. 

But this way of doing things was better than any 
dream. 

The Squire was careful to explain as much to the 
child as he could take in at first. He let him count 
the cows in their stalls, and gave him material for 
many sums to be worked out afterwards as to the 


WHAT BERTIE DID. 


233 


quantities of milk and butter. He let him watch 
whilst they were loosed and turned out to graze in 
the rich meadows below, and encouraged him to 
caress the pretty Alderney whose acquaintance he 
had made in the fields. 

He showed him the different pigs, and explained 
their “ points” to him ; he let him look at the horses, 
and told anecdotes about several of them that were 
listened to with deep attention. 

When the more serious business of the day began, 
and orders were given to the different men, and con- 
sultations held with the bailiff as to the disposal of 
cattle or the rotation of crops, Bertie listened with 
all his ears, trying to look as much like the Squire 
as possible, secretly imitating his attitudes, and re- 
peating to himself some phrase that struck him as 
particularly fine. 

He was dismissed presently to the garden and 
the park, as the Squire had to prolong his inspec- 
tion by a trudge over some ploughed land, too 
heavy for Bertie to traverse : but the little boy 
went happily away, much delighted by his morn- 
ing’s work, and quite convinced that there was no- 
body in the whole world half so wise or so kind as 
the Squire. 


234 


dr'ifted ashore. 


And a few days later there was a new surprise for 
Bertie. 

He dined every day now at the Squire’s luncheon 
hour, not only on Sundays, as in old times ; and one 
day, as they rose from table, they heard the sound 
of horses’ feet upon the gravel drive outside, and the 
Squire looked at the clock and said, — 

“Why, it is later than I thought. Run and get 
your hat and coat, Bertie. We ought to be off almost 
at once, or we shall be benighted.” 

Bertie ran off in a great state of delight, not quite 
knowing what was in store, but certain that it would 
be something very nice. Nor was he disappointed, 
for when he came down there was the Squire’s own 
bay standing ready saddled at the door, and beside 
it a smaller and slighter horse, very gracefully made 
and very pretty, also a bay, at whom the master was 
looking very critically as the groom led him up and 
down before him. 

“Now, Bertie,” he said, facing round as the child 
approached, “ I have got you something to ride, and 
as no pony could keep up with Castor, I have had 
to get you something bigger than I meant at first. 
He is very fast, but at the same time quite gentle, 
and his mouth is very good. Do you think you can 


WHAT BERTIE DID. 


235 


manage him? If you feel at all afraid, say so, for 
it is not the least use mounting a thoroughbred horse 
unless you mean to be master.” 

Bertie looked at the horse and then up into the 
Squire’s face; he was flushed with excitement, but 
his mouth was firmly set. 

“I’m not a bit afraid,” he answered, quietly. “I 
should like to ride him very much.” 

“Very good; you shall.” 

So Bertie was lifted into the saddle, and he gath- 
ered up his reins and settled himself in his seat in a 
way that showed him no novice in the art of horse- 
manship. The little horse stepped daintily back and 
forth, as if longing to be off; but Bertie’s gentle 
voice and hands controlled him, and he stood still, 
arching his neck and pawing the ground with his 
foot, until the Squire was mounted and gave the 
word to start. 

How Bertie enjoyed that ride he never could 
afterwards express. It seemed like the realization 
of his brightest dream to be galloping along the 
soft slushy roads beside the Squire, mounted on 
a horse who seemed ready to fly, yet who was 
so gentle that the child had no real trouble in 
controlling him. 


236 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


There is something infectious in the utter glad- 
ness of heart with which childhood can enter into 
new pleasures. The sight of Bertie’s happy face and 
shining eyes brought many a smile to the grave 
countenance of the Squire, and he looked down with 
much tenderness at the little boy at his side, and 
once it seemed almost as if an unwonted tear stood 
in his eye. Bertie, at least, glancing up at the 
moment, almost fancied that he had seen it, and 
wondered what it meant. 

When they drew rein by and by, and walked their 
horses quietly along the lonely road, Bertie looked 
up once again into the Squire’s face and asked with 
great interest, — 

“Used you to take Tom and Charley out with 
you when you rode, like you are taking me to-day?” 

“Yes, they very often came with me.” 

“ I wonder if they liked it as much as I do.” 

“You like it so very much, then?” 

“Oh yes, don’t I! I think it’s splendid!” cried 
Bertie, with a burst of enthusiasm unusual with him. 
“I don’t think anything could be nicer in all the 
world than to go riding with you !” 

The Squire smiled, rather a sad smile perhaps, but 
once he had rarely smiled at all. 


WHAT BERTIE DID. 


237 


“Please tell me about Tom and Charley,” went on 
Bertie, with eager interest. Mrs. Pritchard can tell 
me all about what they did at home ; but she can’t 
tell me about other things, because she didn’t see. 
I want to know about them when they went riding 
with you. What did they do? and where did you 
go? and what did they like best to talk about when 
you went out? And did Mary and Violet ever come 
too?” 

Bertie forgot in his eagerness and excitement that 
he had never heard from the Squire’s lips a single 
word about the sons and daughters he had lost; and 
he did not know that for fifteen long years their 
names had never even passed his lips. He asked 
his questions in absolute ignorance or oblivion of all 
these facts, and when the father began to tell little 

anecdotes of the rides he and his children had taken 

« 

together long, long ago, Bertie listened with undivided 
interest and pleasure, not in the least realizing — how 
should he? — that this moment was almost as great a 
turning-point in his benefactor’s life as the one when 
he took the child in his arms in the lonely church- 
yard and called him his adopted son. 

But so it was. The barrier of reserve that had 
locked itself like an icy wall about his heart had 


238 DRIFTED ASHORE. 

melted beneath the warm sunshine of a little child’s 
love. The silence of fifteen long, dreary years had 
been broken at last, and a load like a leaden weight 
had rolled away with it. 

That night the faithful Pritchard remarked to his 
wife, — 

“ I’ve never seen the master look so like himself 
since last summer fifteen years.” 

And Mrs. Pritchard wiped her eyes and an- 
swered, — 

“’Tis the child as has done it, for sure, bless his 
little heart ! Wasn’t I always sure as he would bring 
a blessing with him when he came?” 


CHAPTER XVII, 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

UT in the midst of all his newly-found hap- 
piness Bertie did not forget his old friends. 

He had told the Squire all about his 
affection for David, and had been encour- 
aged to show all the kindness in his power to the 
fisher-lad, who had been kind to him when he was a 
lonely little outcast. 

So almost every day he visited the humble cabin, 
and wandered with David among the sandhills, and 
found in him as sympathetic a confident, now that 
he had happy secrets to tell, as in the old days when 
these had all been sad. 

“I do be glad, that I be,” said David again and 



240 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


again, when Bertie told him of his happiness. “I 
just knew the Lord couldn’t forget thee — didn’t I 
always tell thee so?” 

‘Yes, you did, and you were quite right. He 
didn’t ever forget me, though He didn’t remember 
me in the way I expected' quite.” 

“Maybe He does things in His own way,” re- 
marked David, simply. “My teacher says as He 
knows best.” 

“Yes,” answered *Bertie, softly, and with childish 
reverence. “You know I always tried to say ‘Thy 
will be done’ too. I’m so glad I did ; for I’m sure 
His will is best.” 

Sometimes David would look earnestly at his little 
companion and ask, — 

“ Don’t thou want to remember what thy name is 
or who thou really be?” 

And Bertie’s face would put on a grave, far-away 
look as he would answer, — 

“I want Him to do just what He thinks best. 
He’s given me such a lot of things that I know He’s 
not forgotten me; and I’d like to leave it all to 
Him.” 

“Maybe that’s best,” David would say. “I do be 
glad He’s made thee so happy.” 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 


24! 

The Squire, who took an interest in everything 
and everybody that made a part of Bertie’s life, 
began to take notice of David now, and found out 
from his mother that he did not seem physically 
adapted for the seafaring life that would naturally 
fall to his lot. 

He loved his home near the sea, and the sea itself, 
but he had no taste for the career of fisherman or 
sailor, and when the Squire asked the good dame if 
she would like to see him employed about the garden 
or farm connected with the Manor House her eyes 
brightened with pleasure, and she answered, that 
there was nothing in all the world he would like so 
well ; it would keep him at home, and yet near 
Master Bertie. 

Every one round and about Arlingham knew the 
substantial advantage of entering the Squire’s service. 
None of his laborers or workpeople were ever “ turned 
off” when work was slack, none were dismissed when 
old age robbed them of their former powers. If 
they behaved themselves well, they might stay upon 
the place from early youth to hoary old age. Such 
had been the traditions of the house for many 
generations, and many were the men who had grown 
grey-headed in the service of the Squires of Arling- 


242 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


ham, and who had learned to love and revere the 
masters who were always just, yet always generous, 
and who looked after them in sickness and in health 
with a quiet, kindly sovereignty that never became 
tyrannical and never degenerated into undue famil- 
iarity. The master was always the master, and yet 
each one of his servants, even if they feared him a 
little, knew that he was at heart the staunchest friend 
they need wish to have, so long as they earned his 
good-will by quiet attention to duty. 

So David’s mother was deeply delighted at the 
prospect of seeing her son enter the Squire’s service, 
knowing well that an opening in life would be thus 
secured which would afford him a means of liveli- 
hood for as long as he cared to remain. 

The next step was to speak to the lad himself and 
discover the bent of his tastes. It would be hard to 
say which of the boys was most pleased at the pros- 
pect thus held out — David or Bertie. The Squire 
was a good deal amused by the animation of his little 
adopted son, and was pleased at David’s visible 
gratitude and eagerness. A few questions soon 
elicited the fact that the farm attracted him more 
than the garden. He had a great love for all live 
animals, and had been more or less used to cows 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 


243 


and pigs all his life, having often been employed 
by one or another of the village folks to look after 
their beasts when they themselves were too busy 
to do so. 

So David was promoted to be a cow-boy at the 
Manor Farm, and greatly did both he and Bertie 
rejoice in the new dignity thus conferred upon him. 
He had a certain number of cows to milk and look 
after, and the favorite Alderney was amongst these. 
Bertie began now to haunt the farm like a little 
“Squire born,” as the men used to say among them- 
selves: “For all the world like poor Master Tom,” 
the elder laborers would add. And they all looked 
kindly upon the little boy, who on his side always 
spoke nicely and courteously to every one of the 
people, and they sometimes said amongst themselves 
that if Master Bertie succeeded in his day as Squire 
of Arlingham, there would be no fear but that the old 
traditions would be kept up. He was not the sort to 
let them die out. 

So Bertie went about very much as if he had been 
born and bred upon the place. He learned to milk 
the cows and to understand their ways. He had his 
own chickens and turkeys, and was fattening one of 
the latter with untiring assiduity for the Squire’s 


244 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Christmas dinner. He could talk quite gravely and 
knowingly about the price of corn or the quality of 
hay, and modelled himself in all things upon the 
Squire in a way that often provoked a smile. 

He was very happy in those days — happier than 
he had once believed it possible for him to be. The 
forgotten past did not haunt him with vague, fleeting 
images and illusive dreams. The present was full 
of satisfaction and pleasure, and amid its many 
and vivid interests he never felt that blank sense 
of emptiness that had once so weighed upon his 
spirit. 

Dr. Lighton began to shake his head when ques- 
tioned now as to the probability of the vanished past 
ever returning to him. 

“It may do still,” he would say: “the sight of a 
familiar face or a place that he has known might 
bring it all back in a flood ; but he is so young that 
a few years of this life may cause actual forgetfulness, 
irrespective of the original injury, and he may never 
be able to recall the past at all. If he were older, 
the chances would be much greater ; as things stand 
now, I confess I am doubtful.” 

The Squire showed no uneasiness at hearing this. 
People were beginning to say that he looked ten 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 


245 


years younger already than when Bertie had first 
come; and the young doctor, who was on more 
intimate terms with him than anybody else in the 
neighborhood, was much impressed by the change 
in him. 

“To tell the truth, doctor,” said the Squire, smil- 
ing, “ I am in no wise anxious to discover the child’s 
parents. I did my best at first, but quite failed in 
tracing them. I have grown fond of him. He is 
like my own child now ; and, without wishing to be 
selfish, I shall be personally glad if he is never 
claimed. He has settled down very comfortably 
here, and I think I can make him happy.” 

“There is no doubt as to that, I think. I incline 
to hope, for both your sakes, that he never will be 
claimed.” 

Christmas-time came round in due course ; but it 
did not bring back Bertie’s little playfellows to the 
empty house behind the trees. He had a letter from 
Queenie saying that they were all going to spend the 
holidays at the house of an uncle and aunt; but that 
she thought they would come home again in March 
or April, and she hoped it would not be too late to 
get the young sea-gulls. 

The Squire was afraid Bertie might be disap- 


246 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


pointed at not seeing his young friends and sharing 
together the Christmas festivities ; but the child 
was quite content that it should be so, and, putting 
his arms about his so-called father’s neck, he whis- 
pered, — 

“I’ve got you, papa. I don’t want anybody else.” 

The lonely man and the lonely child had grown 
very dear to one another during these past weeks. 
They were together during the greater part of the 
day, and they shared each other’s confidence in a 
way that was quite peculiar. 

They had a world of their own, too, other than 
the material world around them, and one quite 
unknown to any but themselves. It was the world 
of the Squire’s buried past, that for many long years 
he had shut away in his own heart and had striven 
to forget. A long closed door had at last been 
unlocked by a childish hand, and old memories 
awakened into a new life that seemed to bring them 
a strange sense of peace and consolation. 

Tom and Charley, Mary and Violet, the gentle 
mother and the baby Donald, were now as house- 
hold words on the lips of one who had thought 
never to speak their names again. To the little boy, 
who was never tired of hearing stories of their brief 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 


24; 


lives, they were real and living friends, whose 
personality was as vivid to him as if they still ran 
races in the hall and flocked about their father at 
dusk to beg for the stories he always kept for 
them. 

The Squire was called upon as imperiously now 
for stories as ever in the sweet days of the happy 
past, and no stories were so eagerly welcomed as 
those that told of the children whom he began to 
look on as not lost, but only gone before. 

There was one story that Bertie longed to hear, 
but that he had never asked for yet. Many times 
the request had been on the tip of his tongue, but 
had never actually passed his lips. He had heard a 
part of the story from Mrs. Pritchard, he had imag- 
ined it many times for himself, but he had never 
heard it from the Squire, and he felt that until he 
did so he should never be entirely satisfied. 

It was Christmas day, and the day had been full 
of pleasure and' interest to little Bertie. Upon the 
previous afternoon the happy work had begun in the 
distribution of Christmas dinners amongst the Squire’s 
people and the poor folks of the place. Early in the 
day there had been another distribution of warm 
clothing and bright scarlet cloaks to the old people, 


248 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


and after morning service a great dinner in the 
laundry for all the Squire’s laborers and work-people 
who were not married, and preferred this way of 
dining to solitary meals or those taken with fami- 
lies who perhaps preferred their room to their 
company. 

% 

The Squire and Bertie had visited them at dinner, 
and enjoyed seeing their happy, jovial faces and the 
gusto with which they fell to upon the good cheer 
before them ; but what had delighted the child most 
was the big Christmas tree in the barn for the 
youngsters of the place, where all kinds of things 
were given away and nobody was forgotten. 

It was many, many years since the Squire had 
shown himself as he did this year. Christmas at the 
Manor House had always been kept with almost 
feudal or mediaeval liberality and hospitality, and 
the tree, that had been inaugurated by the last lady 
of the Manor only a year or two before her death, 
had always been an institution since; but it was 
fifteen years since the Squire had seen it or since he 
had helped to give away its load of presents. 

Bertie had not been forgotten. He had come in 
for a lion’s share of pretty things, trifles that children 
prize so much. The old servants had each their 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 


249 


little offering for the child they all loved. David’s 
clever fingers had made a wonderful cap out of sea- 
gulls’ feathers, which Mrs. Pritchard had hung upon 
the tree at his earnest request, and the Squire had 
been represented by articles of a more costly and 
serviceable kind. But Bertie’s pleasure had been 
less for himself than in seeing so many other people 
happy. He was learning in a very practical and 
emphatic way that it is more blessed to give than to 
receive. 

And now all the excitement of the day was over, 
even the seven o’clock dinner with the Squire, when 
they had both partaken of the fatted turkey, which 
was said to have done credit to the care bestowed 
on it. Eight o’clock had struck, and it was nearly 
Bertie’s bed-time, but he fearlessly followed the 
Squire into his library and climbed upon his knee as 
he settled himself in his easy-chair. 

There had been a long silence between them, and 
then Bertie asked, softly, — 

“Have you enjoyed your Christmas, papa?” 

The arm that encircled him pressed him a little 
more closely. 

“Yes, my little boy, I have enjoyed it this year. 
And you?” 


250 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Oh, I have been very, very happy! — I always 
am now, you know.” 

“You are content to be my little boy? You do 
not want anybody else?” 

“I think I would rather be your little boy always 
now,” answered Bertie; and then lie looked up 
into the face above him with a peculiar depth of 
gravity, and added, “ I feel as if God had given me 
to you.” 

“I think He has, my child; and I am grateful to 
Him. He has given back to me a part of what He 
saw fit to take away. He has given me one little son 
to be with me in my old age.” 

Bertie sat up and looked into the face above him. 

“Papa,” he said, softly, “will you tell me one story 
to-night? I want to know about — about it all — 
when He took them all away.” 

There was a deep silence for a few minutes after 
those words were spoken, and Bertie, gazing into the 
father’s eyes, half repented of his question, and yet 
did not repent. He could not read the look upon 
that face, it awed him into unbroken silence; and 
yet there was no anger there, no sternness even, only 
a deep, far-off sadness, as if some picture were slowly 
rising above the mental horizon that could only be 


CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 25 1 

looked upon with tear-dimmed eyes and with tender, 
haunting regret. 

The moments seemed very long to Bertie, but he 
did not speak again. 

“My child,” said the Squire at last, “why do you 
ask for that story to-night?” 

Bertie hardly knew himself. 

“You have never told it me,” he answered, shyly; 
“and to-night — ” 

“Well, to-night?” 

“To-night seems a happy time. It is Christmas, 
you know, and the angels are always glad at Christ- 
mas. I think they are always nearer us then, be- 
cause, you know, the shepherds saw them once, as if 
they liked to fly nearer to us at Christmas-time — ” 

Bertie paused again, hardly knowing how to frame 
the thought, and again the Squire said, — 

“Well?” 

“ I thought, perhaps, they might be nearer to us 
to-night — Tom and Charley and all of them, you 
know. Perhaps they are helping the angels to sing ; 
and if they are, I’m sure they would try to come 
near us to-night. I thought you would not mind 
telling me about them, when perhaps they are not so 
very far away. Don’t you think it is rather nice to 


252 DRIFTED ASHORE. 

think that they are up there — so happy helping 
the angels to sing, ‘Peace on earth and glory to 
God’?” 

There was another long silence, which again the 
Squire broke. 

“ I will tell you the story to-night, my child, if you 
wish to hear it.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE SQUIRE’S STORY. 

3 you want to know the story of that 
summer fifteen years ago, do you ? I 
I have never spoken of that time to any 
living creature since, but, as you are to 
be my little son, perhaps you ought to know the 
story of those who went before you.” 

The Squire spoke in slow, measured tones. He 
looked straight before him into the fire, and his voice 
had a dreamy, far-away sound, as the voice of one 
who is lost in the depths of his own thoughts and 
memories. 

Bertie, sitting upon the Squire’s knee, drew the 
encircling arm more closely about him, and rested 
his head against the kindly shoulder that gave it 
such comfortable support. 

“ I like to know everything about you,” he said, 



254 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


softly, “and about all of them. I know a great deal, 
but not quite all. I want to know why you wrote 
“Thy will be done.” 

The subtle sympathy that existed between the 
man and the child made Bertie’s thought clear to 
the Squire. He understood the child’s meaning, 
and saw that he had himself been understood. 

“You want to know how I learned my lesson, 
Bertie? Very well, you shall hear.” 

He paused; but Bertie said nothing, and after a 
long silence the Squire commenced his tale. 

“ I was an only child, and my parents were all 
that is kind and wise and judicious. I was not 
spoiled, and yet I had every reasonable indulgence, 
and I was very happy. I was brought up in the 
fear and love of God, as well as in the earnest wish 
to do my duty to my fellow-creatures, especially to 
those who lived about me, and were, or would be, 
in a measure dependent upon me for their daily 
bread. I was never inclined to treat such matters 
lightly, accepted the teaching my parents gave me 
readily and sincerely, and I never felt tempted to 
wander from the beaten track that my forefathers 
had trodden. I had a very happy, untroubled youth, 
and life was very bright before and around me. I 


THE SQUIRE’S STORY. 


255 


was kind-hearted and generous, a favorite with our 
people, and if I had ever been questioned upon the 
subject, I suppose I should have said that I was 
doing my best to live the life of a Christian gentle- 
man. I was not in the least aware that there was 
nothing personal in my religion. I had accepted it 
from my father and mother in just the same fashion 
as I had accepted their politics and their teaching 
upon a variety of subjects; only, whereas I inter- 
ested myself deeply in secular subjects, and verified 
the wisdom of their views by practical experience of 
my own, I was content in the matter of religion to 
take all upon trust, and accept everything they said, 
because I had no reason to doubt their wisdom, and 
because it was much easier to let them do the think- 
ing for me than to do it for myself. 

“As years passed by, changes came into my life. 
My parents died, and I married, and had children of 
my own to care for. My life continued easy and 
pleasant and prosperous, as it always had been. I 
was very happy, and had never known what real 
trouble was. The death of my parents had been 
my only grief. I mourned sincerely for them, but 
in the love of my wife and the caresses of my baby 
boys I soon found comfort; and in this happy and 


drifted ashore. 


25 6 

quiet way my life flowed on from year to year, till, 
like somebody else of whom we read, ‘ I said in my 
prosperity, I shall never be moved ; Thou, Lord, of 
Thy goodness hast made my hill so strong/” 

There was a pause, which the quiet little listener 
did not try to break. How much he understood of 
all this, how much he entered into the frame of mind 
described, the Squire did not pause to ask. It was 
plain enough that he was deeply interested in any 
story that dealt with the past life of one he loved 
so well. 

“My wife, Bertie, was a very good woman. You 
see her picture there. She brought up our children 
to be like her — how like I did not know for many 
years. I was very happy and very busy every day 
of my life, from one year’s end to another. I loved 
my wife, I loved my children very dearly. They 
loved me in return, and it seemed as if no cloud ever 
shadowed our peaceful home. Sickness never came 
within our doors. We often laughed at our yearly 
doctor’s bill, it was so very small. Everything 
seemed to thrive with us. Trouble passed us by as 
if it had no part or lot in our house. I began to 
take our happiness and prosperity so much for 
granted that I almost forgot to be grateful. 


The squire's story. 25/ 

“Not so my wife; her gentle voice was often 
raised in thanksgiving for the brightness of our lot. 
I always assented readily when she spoke of the 
gratitude we owed to God. I did not know how 
little my heart really responded to her words. I 
was soon, however, to learn that my service had been 
all this while little more than the service of self. 

“ Fifteen years ago last summer, the cholera came 
to this country on one of its periodical visits. It 
attacked our village ; but in the first instance the 
nature of the malady was not detected. Our good 
old doctor was himself ill, and away for his health, 
whilst his young assistant was quite inexperienced, 
and had never seen cholera in his life. We heard 
that there were many cases of illness in the village, 
and from what we heard we gathered that it was 
caused by some impurity in the water supply. We 
had never been in the least alarmed on our own 
account when attacks of sickness had from time to 
time taken place in the village. We had never 
banished the children, nor had we ever had cause to 
repent our temerity. My wife was assiduous as ever 
in ministering to the wants of the sick. Nobody 
called it cholera during the first week that it visited 
us. Many people took it and died, and a sort of 


258 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


panic set in ; but that made my wife only the more 
anxious to encourage others by her own example. 

“The boys had just come home for their holidays, 
and as they were very popular in the village, and had 
a number of friends amongst the people, they were 
continually running across; and if they heard of a 
case of illness in any house they knew, they would 
look in to say a cheery word to the sufferer and 
ascertain if he had everything he wanted. 

“But at the end of a week the mortality became 
so great that the gravest fears were excited. Medical 
help from other places was called in, and we were 
soon made aware that the scourge of cholera had 
visited us. I took the alarm then. I said to my 
wife that she must make instant arrangements to 
leave, taking all the children with her, but that I 
should remain to do what I could for the sufferers 
and to help those who were working for them. My 
wife would fain have stayed with me, but I would 
not hear of it. For the sake of the children she 
submitted to my verdict ; and, with the heroism that 
had always charactized her, she forbore to tempt 
me away from the place where my duty bade me 
stay. 

“It was on Saturday that we awoke to a sense of 


THE SQUIRE’S STORY. 


259 


the peril of our position. On Monday morning we 
had arranged that all for whom any anxiety was felt, 
or who were at all afraid to remain, should leaye the 
house. All our plans were made — but they were 
made too late. 

“On Sunday afternoon Mary came running to us 
with a frightened face, saying that Tom had been 
suddenly taken very ill whilst playing in the garden. 
We hastened to him, and found him cold and blue 
and almost pulseless. We saw at a glance that he 
had been smitten by the relentless foe, and when 
first I saw him my heart seemed to stand still, for I 
felt certain that there was death in his face. 

“We knew by that time what measures to take, 
and they were promptly taken. We had been two 
hours with him, and still that state of rigid collapse 
had not yielded, when Mary called us once again 
to say that Charley was complaining of dreadful 
pain, and looked almost as bad as Tom had done. 

“There were two beds in the boys’ room. Tom 
occupied one now, and in another hour Charley was 
lying still and rigid in his. The doctor came, and 
looked very grave. From the character of the seiz- 
ure in both cases, he anticipated the worst from the 
first moment. 


26 o 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“That night both my boys died. They were con- 
scious towards the last, and they knew both their 
mother and me. She told them they were going 
home, and asked if they were afraid. They told her 
no; because Jesus had died for them. I asked 
them how they could be so sure of it ; they looked 
half surprised, and Tom answered, with a look I 
shall never forget — it seemed so strange in the eyes 
of laughter-loving, careless, merry Tom. 

‘“He said so, father; and besides, I feel it here ' — 
laying his hand on his heart. ‘He said, He died 
for all of us. He said, He took away all sin with 
His blood. I know He’s taken away mine. Mother 
and I have asked Him so often.’ 

“ Charley’s testimony was more faintly spoken, — 
the boy had suffered much and was sinking rapidly, 
— but it was just as clear. 

“He’s coming for me, mother dear. Don’t cry, 
sweet mother. I’d like to stay with you if I could ; 
but He knows best. He’s so good ; and I am quite 
happy. You will be — happy — too.” 

“And so they died — both in one night — brave 
and stedfast and fearless, as young soldiers who have 
known something of the battle, even if their fighting 
days have been but brief. They were not unhappy 


THE SQUIRE’S STORY. 


26l 


or afraid. Dying for them was but leaving one 
happy home to find another — a far brighter one 
than this could ever be. 

“My wife was the next — she was only two days 
behind her boys ; and her little girls so closely fol- 
lowed her that she could hardly have had time to 
miss them before she found them again in the ever- 
lasting home. For a very little while I hoped that 
my last little boy, the pet and darling of the house, 
was to be left to me. Each night, as I visited him 
in his sleep, and marked the bloom on his cheek and 
the healthy, natural slumber, I told myself that he 
would surely be spared me ; but there came one 
morning when I saw, by the frightened and averted 
glances of my servants, that some new calamity had 
befallen me. I asked no question, but went straight 
up to the nursery. 

“There he lay in his little bed, white and still as 
marble ; his little hands crossed upon his breast, and 
fair white flowers around him. He had been found 
dead in his bed in the morning, having evidently 
passed away in his sleep. The poison had done its 
work swiftly and well, and the child had not known 
one struggle or one pang. 

“They were all laid in the quiet churchyard within 


262 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


a week of each other. The sickness declined amongst 
us from that day; and only the many new mounds 
in the graveyard and the empty chairs around many 
hearths were left to tell the tale of that terrible time. 

“I was left alone in my home — quite alone; for 
in my despair I found that what I had taken to be 
my love of God and trust in Him was all an illusion, 
a shadow that vanished away the moment my pros- 
perity was overthrown. God was showing me the 
true worth of those things in which I had put my 
trust. He was showing me that I had never known 
Him truly all my life long. I was not quick to learn 
the lesson He was teaching me. Trouble hardened 
my heart, and in my thoughts I reviled the God who 
had taken away all that made the happiness of my 
life and had left me alone in misery and darkness. 
For a long time I was very, very unhappy. 

“ At last, in the days of my darkness and misery, 
God sent me a message of comfort. He sent it me 
by the hand of my dead wife — in a few words she 
had pencilled on the fly-leaf of her Bible, only a few 
hours before her death, and which it was months 
before I found courage to read. 

‘“God will be with you always, my dear husband,’ 
she wrote. ‘His Holy Spirit will be your support 


THE SQUIRE’S STORY. 


263 


and stay in all trials, and will lead you to the eternal 
home in our Father’s own good time — ’ The pencil 
had evidently dropped from her fingers then ; but 
she had told me enough. 

'“Lord, give to me the guidance of Thy Holy 
Spirit,’ was my daily prayer, when once the hardness 
of my heart was melted, and I had sought my Sav- 
iour’s forgiveness and pardoning love. That prayer 
was not uttered in vain. In His own good time God 
sent His Comforter to me ; and I trust that I have 
learned the lesson He taught me during those dark 
and desolate days. We are always failing, always 
slipping, always needing new lessons and new strength 
to learn them ; but I think there is one great life-long 
lesson that I shall not have to learn again. 

“ When I had learned it first, I put upon the marble 
slab over the grave that held my all the words I have 
never since wished unsaid — 'Thy will be done.’” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


COMING CHANGES. 

3 the winter days wore happily away, 
the bond between the Squire and his 
little adopted son growing ever stronger 
and stronger ; and by slow yet sure 
degrees the sunshine began to take the golden radi- 
ance of spring, the buds upon the bare trees swelled 
with the stirring life within them, the hedges showed 
a filmy network of tender green, and the shy wild 
flowers began to peep out from sheltered sunny 
corners, smiling up at the sunshine from beneath 
the protecting roots of great trees, or nodding their 
heads in friendly greeting to passers-by from cosey 
nooks in the south slope of a sheltered bank. 

Bertie and his friend the Squire welcomed the 
spring, as all the world does to a greater or less 
extent. The winter had been a very happy time for 



COMING CHANGES. 


265 


them both ; but the promise of spring seemed to 
them to be charged with gladness and brightness 
for all. 

Once when they were crossing the park together, 
the Squire looked down at his little companion and 
said, — 

“This is the first time that spring has been spring 
to me for fifteen long years.” 

Bertie, who was hunting for primroses in a mossy 
bank, looked up quickly. 

“The years were like one long winter to me,” 
continued the Squire, looking out straight before 
him ; and then, lifting his hat for a moment, he 
added, reverently, “But, thank God! that has all 
passed now.” 

Bertie came and took one of the hands of his so- 
called father and laid his cheek against it. 

He knew quite well that this was the Squire’s way 
of telling him that his coming there had been a 
source of comfort and happiness. 

“ I came here in the spring, didn’t I ?” he asked. “ I 
think I’ve been here nearly a year — David says so.” 

“Yes, it is going on now for a year — a year in 
April since you were washed ashore. Has it been 
a happy year to you, my child?” 


266 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Bertie glanced up into the face above him with 
eyes full of love. 

“Ever since you let me be your little boy,” he 
answered, with emphasis, “I have been quite happy.” 

“And before?” 

“Before I was happy sometimes — when I was 
with you ; but I was often very lonely. If I hadn’t 
felt sure that God would take care of me, I think I 
should have been miserable sometimes.” 

“But you were sure of that?” 

Bertie paused and reflected. 

“By and by I was — not just at first — but by and 
by. And then I found out something for me to do, 
and then all the rest came easy.” 

“What did you find to do?” 

“I found out that you were lonely and unhappy, 
and I wanted to comfort you,” answered the child, 
very softly. “ Because you had no little children of 
your own left. I didn’t think at first that I could ; 
but by and by you said I did.” 

“Yes, my child. We were given to one another, 
to fill, as it were, the blank that God had thought fit 
to make in both of our lives. We must trust Him 
now to leave us to one another, and not to part us 
unless that too is a part of His holy will.” 


COMING CHANGES. 


267 


Bertie looked up timidly. 

“I could never leave you now, papa.” 

The Squire looked down at him with a smile. 

“ I hope not, my little son ; but it is possible you 
may some day remember your own parents, and 
that they may want you back. But whatever 
happens we know will be for the best, and we must 
always be strong and of a good courage, and da 
what is right. No happiness ever comes from 
shirking duty. 

Bertie looked up wistfully. 

“You have not heard anything, have you, about 
me?” 

The Squire smiled reassuringly. 

“No, no, my little boy; I am only speaking of 
a possible future, and one that we ought perhaps to 
wish for. But I think it quite possible, under all the 
circumstances of the case, th^t your parents, did we 
succeed in tracing them, would allow you to remain 
in my care as my little adopted son ; and we do not 
even know that they are living, for they might well 
have been lost that stormy night when you were 
washed ashore at the fisherman’s hut.” 

Bertie’s face was very grave. He did not often 
speculate now upon the past, and the Squire rarely 


268 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


alluded to the subject. He was quite content to 
dwell in the present, and it seemed highly probable, 
as Dr. Lighton had said, that he would never awake 
to recollection, but that the oblivion of childhood 
would sweep away the vanished past, even when the 
physical injury had gradually cured itself. 

It was impossible for the child to wish for any 
change. He was so entirely happy in his new 
home, and loved his father so devotedly, that there 
was no room in his heart for the vague yearnings 
that had troubled him once, and he felt as if he 
belonged by birthright to the place he now occupied. 

And new interests and pleasures were in store for 
him now in the return of the Arbuthnots to their 
long-deserted house. 

He did not know they were coming until they 
had come, and he suddenly met Queenie in the park, 
face to face, as she was running up to see him and 
tell him all the news. 

He was so surprised that he only stood quite still, 
staring hard at her, and exclaimed, “Queenie!” in 
a very astonished voice. 

“Bertie!” she answered, mimicking him, and then 
she began to laugh in her old merry way. 

“Why, Bertie, how astonished you look! Didn’t 


COMING CHANGES. 269 

I say we should be home in the spring? Aren’t you 
pleased to see me back?” 

“Yes, very pleased,” answered Bertie, recovering 
himself. “Are the boys here yet?” 

“Not yet. They will be back at Easter. Papa 
and mamma and I have come home now. Bertie, is 
it true that the Squire has adopted you properly?” 

“I am his little boy now,” answered the child, 
simply. “ He says so.” 

“And do you like it?” 

“Yes, very much.” 

“You like him?” 

“I love him.” 

“And you’re not dreadfully dull?” 

“Oh no!” 

Queenie looked at him critically. 

“You don’t look as if you were unhappy. You’ve 
grown, I’m sure. You look quite different from 
what you did. Are you happy?” 

“Yes, very.” 

“Well, I’m glad of that, said Queenie. “I like 
people to have nice times. I’ve had such fun 
myself.” 

“Have you? Where have you been?” 

“Oh, to lots of places. We stayed in ever so 


2fO 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


many houses, and it was great fun. Sometimes 
there were other children, and sometimes there 
weren’t. I liked both, but I think I liked it best 
when there were no nurseries or schoolrooms ; then 
I was generally with the ladies. I liked to hear 
them talk, and they gave me pretty things. I’m 
never troublesome, you know, except to nurse,” 
added Queenie, shaking her curly head with a merry 
laugh; “so people like me, and say I’m no trouble, 
and then I’m not turned out.” 

Bertie laughed too, because Queenie’s mirth was 
infectious. 

“Do you know,” went on the little chatterbox, as 
Bertie turned and walked beside her, — “do you 
know we are not going to live here much longer? 
only till midsummer, perhaps not so long?” 

“I didn’t know,” answered Bertie. “Why are 
you going away?” 

“Mamma doesn’t like it, nor papa either; and I 
don’t think / care for it so very much;” and the 
little maiden put on her grand air, as if her wishes 
had been of very great consequence in the decision 
of her parents. “We always used to live in London 
till papa had this place left to him, and then we 
came her for a little while ; but nobody cares very 


COMING CHANGES. 27 1 

particular for it, and so they have decided to sell 
it.” 

Bertie opened his eyes wide. 

“Then will somebody else buy it, and come and 
live here?” he asked. 

Queenie nodded her head mysteriously. 

“ Somebody has bought it already.” 

“Oh!” 

“Yes, somebody you know. Guess who it is.” 

“Sombody I know,” repeated Bertie, slowly; 
“but I know so few people.’” 

“Then you will guess all the quicker!” answered 
Queenie, with her merry laugh. 

Bertie considered a moment and then said, — 

“The Squire?” 

“No, not the Squire; he only cares for his own 
property. Papa says our land is nothing to his ; he 
wouldn’t care for it. Guess again.” 

Bertie was puzzled. 

“Dr. Lighton?” he asked, doubtfully ; butQueenie’s 
laugh was answer enough. 

“No, indeed! Where would he get the money 
from? Guess again.” 

“I can’t; there’s nobody else I know. Are you 
sure I know him?” 


DRIFTED ASHORtf. 


Ill 

“Of course you do! You must guess. You’ve 
seen him at our house often and often.” 

Bertie paused again, hesitated, and suggested, 
timidly, — 

“Uncle Fred?” 

Queenie clapped her hands. 

“There! I knew you could guess if you tried. 
Yes, it’s Uncle Fred. He likes the place, and he 
has plenty of money now, so he has bought it, and 
he’s going to come and live here very soon, as soon 
as he can get married and come over to England.” 

Bertie looked mystified. 

“Isn’t he in England now?” 

“No, he’s in Australia. He likes travelling about, 
and he went there almost as soon as he left us in 
the summer, and now he’s going to get married.” 

Queenie said these words in a voice that implied 
a great deal. She tried to excite Bertie’s curiosity 
by her manner, but he was too simple-minded to 
understand her moods, and he only said, quite 
quietly, — 

“Is he?” 

“Yes, he is; and if you like I’ll tell you all about 
it. It’s very romantic.” 

“What is?” 


COMING CHANGES. 


*73 


“Why, Uncle Fred’s marriage.” 

“What is romantic?” 

Queenie tossed her head, but to tell the plain 
truth she did not exactly know herself. 

“Well, that’s what mamma says when she tells 
people about Uncle Fred. She says it’s so romantic, 
and everybody else says the same — so it must be 
so, you know.” 

Bertie had never dreamed of disputing this, so, as 
he had no answer ready, he merely said, — 

“Well?” 

“Well,” returned Queenie, settling down to her 
story with great animation, “this is what has hap- 
pened. You know, when Uncle Fred was quite a 
young man, he was very fond of a lady he knew 
very well, and he wanted to marry her ; but he was 
not very well off, and he did not like to ask her to 
marry him till he got some money. So he went 
away to sea to make his fortune, and when he came 
back after a year or two with a good deal more 
money, he found that the lady had married some- 
body else, — he had never told her how fond he was 
of her, which I think was silly, — and had gone away 
to live in London. Well, poor Uncle Fred was very 
sad, for he loved her very much, and he always had 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


274 

fancied that she liked him too. A friend of his 
told him that people thought the lady had married 
partly to please her father, for she was very fond of 
him and very obedient; any way she was married, 
and Uncle Fred was too late, so he went back to 
sea again and tried to forget all about her.” 

Queenie paused here, and Bertie asked, — 

“Is that all?” 

“Of course it isn’t all!” cried Queenie; “all that 
happened ten years ago.” 

“Oh!” returned Bertie, who was getting a little 
puzzled by Queenie’s romance. 

“Yes, all that happened ever so long ago, when 
Uncle Fred was quite young, and before he came 
into his money. But he never married even when 
he was quite rich, because he never had cared for 
any lady except the one he wanted to marry long 
ago. Well, last yeaf he went out to Australia, as I 
told you. He had made a good many friends there 
before, and he thought he would like to go and see 
them all again. And when he was at Sydney or 
Melbourne, or one of those places, he went once to 
a great party given by some rich man there, and 
when he got there, who was it, do you think, that 
he met?” 


COMING CHANGES. 275 

Queenie’s face told its own tale. Bertie was not 
very well read in romances, but he could guess the 
sequel to this one. “ I suppose you mean that he 
met the lady that he wanted to marry once.” 

“Yes,” answered Queenie, very impressively, “the 
lady he is going to marry now — at least he has 
married her, I suppose, already, and perhaps they 
are on their way home now.” 

“But I thought she had married somebody else,” 
objected Bertie. 

“ She did years and years ago, but he died very 
soon after they were married; only Uncle Fred had 
never heard of it. Her old father died too, by and 
by, and she was left all alone ; and she had some 
cousins in Australia who asked her to come and 
live with them, and so she did. I don’t think she’s 
been long in Australia; I don’t think her father 
died till last year or something; anyhow, she was 
there when Uncle Fred found her last Christmas, 
and now they will be married and come and live 
here.” 

Bertie’s interest was now fully aroused. 

“That will be nice,” he said. “I’m glad nobody’s 
coming that we don’t know. I like Uncle Fred ; he 
was always very kind to me.” 


2?6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“He always liked you,” answered Queenie. “He 
took a fancy to you from the first moment. He will 
be a nice neighbor for the Squire too ; they always 
got on very well together. I hope he will have a 
nice wife. He must be very fond of her, so I should 
think she was nice.” 

Bertie was less interested upon this point than 
upon others. 

“Will you ever come here after you g'o away?” 

“Oh, yes ; we shall be sure to come and see Uncle 
Fred sometimes.” 

Bertie looked pleased. 

“That will be nice. We shall be able to play 
together, and you won’t forget me. I don’t like 
people to go right away and forget and get forgotten ; 
it seems rather sad, don’t you think?” 

“ I don’t know; I don’t think I ever thought about 
it; but you won’t have a chance of forgetting us, any 
way. And, Bertie, have you forgotten about the sea- 
gulls in the Rocky Bay?” 

Bertie shook his head and smiled. 

“I’ve not forgotten a bit,” he answered, “and I 
can climb very well now. I’m ready to go as soon 
as ever the right time comes.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE ROCKY BAY. 



)0-M0RR0W, Bertie, to-morrow !” whis- 
pered Phil, in a sort of ecstatic excite- 
ment. “Keep it dark; and be ready at 
nine sharp. Do you think you could 
get David to come too without the Squire’s know- 
ing it?” 

"No; but if I ask him to let him come with me, I 
know he will say yes. Of course I shall tell him 
where I am going, — I always do.” 

Phil whistled a little. 

“Do you though? I hadn’t bargained for that; 
but you won’t say anything about the young gulls.” 

“No, that isn’t my secret; I promised not to tell; 
but I shall have to ask leave to go to the Rocky Bay 


278 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


to-morrow. I know he’ll let me, and he’ll let David 
come too if I ask, and then I can drive in my little 
cart and bring something to eat, and you can go in 
the boat or on your ponies, as you like best.” 

“Oh, we shall ride,” answered Phil. “The other 
fellows would guess there was something up if we 
wanted the boat out; and, besides, we could not pull 
it all that way alone. If you have your cart it will 
be jolly. We can take everything back in it, young 
birds and all. Oh, yes ; we’ll have a rare good day ! 
You’re sure the Squire will let you go?” 

“Oh, yes; he is very kind. He always likes me 
to ask him for things.” 

So Bertie made his proposition very boldly that 
night, and received a ready assent. 

Mrs. Pritchard was pleased to supply the party 
with lunch, and, as David was going, she felt no 
anxiety as to the safety of her pet. David was a 
good, steady lad, and could be trusted to look after 
Master Bertie as carefully as his own mother. 

The Squire came out to see the boy drive away. 
He lifted him into the varnished cart, and as he gave 
him the reins he said, — 

“A nice day to you my boy. Take care of 
yourself; but don’t go climbing about the rocks 


THE ROCKY BAY. 


279 

after sea-gulls’ eggs, or you’ll be getting into 
danger.” 

The pony had started before his words were all 
spoken, so that he could not see the sudden cloud 
that fell upon Bertie’s face. The little boy drove 
through the park with a keen sense of disappoint- 
ment weighing upon him. What had put it into the 
Squire’s head to utter that prohibition just at the 
last? Did he really mean what he said, or was it 
only spoken in jest? 

Bertie had half a mind to turn back and plead for 
a reversal of the verdict ; but he resisted the tempta- 
tion, and drove on in silence. He was afraid, for one 
thing, of betraying the secret entrusted to him by his 
companions ; and, for another, he had not lived for a 
year beneath the Squire’s roof without learning that, 
however kind and considerate he might be, his will 
was law to all about him, and that he never gave an 
order, however trifling, without some good reason, 
and always expected that order to be strictly 
carried out. 

So Bertie knew that there would be no climbing 
that day for him, and he was keenly disappointed ; 
for he was sure that Queenie would accuse him of 
cowardice, and he was well aware that he had 


280 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


acquired, by practice in trees and crumbling walls, 
and about the roof of the old Manor House, a skill 
and agility in climbing with which he had quite 
hoped to take his companions by storm. 

However, there was nothing for it now but to 
obey, — for, to do the child justice, he never dreamed 
of disobedience, — and it was with a heart a good 
deal less light than he had expected that he joined 
his companions at the place they had agreed 
upon. 

Phil had a good big basket with him, which was 
transferred to the cart, and the little cavalcade set 
forwards. Conversation was not altogether easy be- 
tween the riders and driver, so Bertie’s silence passed 
unnoticed; but the faithful David felt certain his 
little master was cast down about something, and, 
making a shrewd guess, he whispered, — 

“Don’t’ee be sad about it, Master Bertie; I’ll get 
thee the best eggs as can be had in the bay. I know 
where them birds build, I do, and I’ll see thee has all 
thee wants. I’ll get thee a pair of young uns too, if 
so be as they’re hatched and fledged ; but we’re full 
early for birds yet.” 

“Yes, but Phil has to go back to school so soon 
that we had to come to-day. Don’t you get into any 


THE ROCKY BAY. 


28l 


danger, David. I don’t care about the eggs — at 
least not so very much.” 

“Bless thy heart! ’tis nothing to me. I’ve been 
born and bred to it all my life long.” 

By the time the little party had reached the bay, 
the sun was riding high in the sky, and the children 
were hungry and thirsty as well as hot. 

David took the ponies away to the farm, and the 
others carried the baskets down the rocky path into 
the bay. Lunch was, of course, the first considera- 
tion, and as Queenie set to work upon her sand- 
wiches and cake, she looked across at Phil and 
said, — 

“Why, we haven’t told Bertie about Uncle Fred !” 

“What about him?” asked Bertie. 

“Why, he’s landed in England — he and his wife, 
you know. They came one steamer before we ex- 
pected. They’re in London now— at least they were 
last night. They stayed a few days there, and to- 
day they’re coming down to us. The house belongs 
to Uncle Fred now, you know, and we shall soon 
leave it. When we get home Uncle Fred will be 
there.” 

“Yes, and a new aunt,” added Queenie, laughing; 
“ it will seem so funny to have a new aunt. What 


282 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


did mamma say her name was? Wasn’t it Aunt 
Winifred?” 

Bertie suddenly put up his hand to his head, as 
he used sometimes to do when he first came, but 
hardly ever now. Queenie noticed the movement, 
and paused to ask, — 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered. “What were you 
saying? Go on, please.” 

“Well, it is not our house any longer, and we 
shall go very soon. Shall you mind?” 

“ I shall be sorry,” answered Bertie, slowly. 
“But I suppose you will come there sometimes?” 

“To see Uncle Fred? Oh yes, of course. Uncle 
Fred is sure to ask Phil and me every year. It will 
be nice to come here sometimes and see you again. 
I like this place, though perhaps it is a little dull 
for living in always.” 

“I think it’s jolly!” cried Phil. “I like it heaps 
better than London. However, as I’m at school 
now, it doesn’t so very much matter to me. Eton 
is out and out the best place in the world !” 

“You like it better than Dr. Steele’s?” said Bertie, 
gravely; and Phil laughed uproariously at the 
question, remembering old times there, and his half- 


THE ROCKY BAY. 283 

triumphant, half-ignominious flight from his old 
abode just about a year ago. 

After the children had satisfied their hunger, the 
main business of the day began. Eager eyes were 
fixed upon the rocky ledges of the perpendicular 
cliff, and the movements of the sea-gulls who fre- 
quented the spot were closely watched. 

David’s opinion was eagerly waited for. He did 
not seem to think that there were as many birds as 
usual building, or at least laying their eggs in this 
place ; but his practised eye discovered one or two 
places where he felt certain, from # the movements of 
the parent birds, that the young were already 
hatched ; and there were sure to be other nooks 
where eggs might be found, if a patient and careful 
search were made. 

Phil, who was ambitious, was bent on securing 
some young birds, and he made David point out the 
places where he thought these were to be found. 
Phil made his selection from these, and, although 
the elder lad shook his head and said he did not 
think he would ever reach the place, the schoolboy 
was in no wise daunted by difficulties. 

When Phil had begun his cautious climb, and 
David had left them to hunt for eggs, Queenie, who 


284 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


had been watching her brother’s movements with some 
attention, turned suddenly upon Bertie, and asked, — 

‘‘And what are you going to do?” 

Bertie looked rather red, and answered, — 

“Nothing.” 

Queenie’s eyebrows went up. 

“What do you mean? You’ve been boasting all 
this time about how you’ve been climbing and what 
wonderful things you can do. It was all practising for 
to-day. Why don’t you show us what you can do?” 

Bertie was more red than ever now. He had not 
really boasted at -all, but he had admitted to Phil 
that he had been doing a good deal of climbing, and 
hoped to be able to make good use of his agility 
when the day came to visit the Rocky Bay. He 
was intensely eager now to show his prowess and to 
join the climbers in their ascent; but he stood quite 
still, looking sheepish and disturbed. 

Queenie looked at him with a surprise that 
changed to scorn. 

“You are afraid,” she said, disdainfully. “Why 
could you not say so before?” 

“I’m not afraid,” answered Bertie, rather hotly. 
“ I’m no more afraid than you.” 

Queenie tossed her head scornfully. 


THE ROCKY BAY. 


285 


“ Then why on earth don’t you go ? I know it’s 
because you’re afraid. You always were a pitiful 
little coward — all the boys say so.” 

Bertie clenched his hands tightly, tears of anger 
and mortification stood in his eyes. It was very 
hard to be accused of cowardice when he felt himself 
quite innocent of the charge ; and the worst of it was 
that Queenie would never understand his real motive. 
Obedience was not a part of her moral code. 

With a great effort the little boy swallowed his 
resentment, and said, quietly, — 

“The Squire told me this morning that I was not 
to climb the rocks for eggs.” 

Queenie only looked the more scornful. 

“ Of course he did. They all do. Papa always 
does whenever we come here. If he had known Phil 
was going to-day, he would have forbidden him ; but 
nobody cares for that. Rules are only made to be 
broken, you know. They must have exceptions, or 
they wouldn’t be rules — everybody knows that. I 
know now why you would tell the Squire. You 
wanted him to forbid you because you were afraid. 
I always thought you were a horrid little coward, 
and now I know it !” 

When Queenie was vexed, she did not pause to 


2 86 DRIFTED ASHORE. 

consider other people’s feelings, and she had grown 
up with brothers who were used to her sharp 
speeches and did not mind them much. They knew 
that “her bark was worse than her bite,” as the 
proverb says, and did not trouble themselves over 
her angry words ; but Bertie was not hardened like 
this. He was not accustomed to be spoken to so' 
harshly, and his eyes filled again with tears of morti- 
fication and distress. 

Queenie was something of a little tyrant. She 
liked to feel her own power, and she was inclined to 
use it rather mercilessly. Seeing that she had made 
an impression upon her companion, she proceeded 
to improve the occasion. 

“You who lectured Phil so about courage! It 
is uncommonly easy to talk big, Master Bertie” 
(Queenie evidently found it so, at any rate); “but 
when it comes to deeds the case is very different. 
The idea that you ever dared to talk to him 
about courage ! I wonder you’re not ashamed of 
yourself!” 

Bertie attempted no defence : for one thing, talking 
was not his strong point ; and for another, he knew 
that any words of his would be quite wasted on 
Queenie, who was entirely impervious to reasonable 


THE ROCKY BAY. 287 

argument when she had once mounted her high horse. 
So there was silence between them for a few mo- 
ments ; and, before anybody had attempted to reopen 
the conversation, the silence was broken by an alarm- 
ing sound, the cry of a boy in distress. 

For the last few minutes they had ceased to watch 
Phil’s ascent of the cliff, being engrossed in their own 
argument. Looking up quickly now with startled 
eyes, they saw that his position had become suffi- 
ciently perilous. 

He had clambered from ledge to ledge with great 
skill and address ; but he had not troubled himself 
to make sure, in the excitement of the ascent, that it 
was possible to descend in the same manner. He 
had been tempted on to really difficult places, and 
suddenly he had found himself upon a narrow rocky 
ridge whence he could make no step either forward or 
backward. His last step had been a fragment of 
rock that had given way as he quitted it, and he had 
narrowly escaped a fall that must have proved fatal. 
But his present position was perilous enough to 
threaten his safety, and, as is so often the case in the 
presence of real danger, giddiness seized upon him, 
and he clung to the hard rock with convulsive terror, 
and called aloud in his fright. 


288 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Queenie’s shriek of terror brought David quickly 
to their side, and he at once realized the peril of 
Phil’s position ; but he knew better than the children 
what to do, and the emergency seemed to give him 
courage and presence of mind beyond his years. 

“Hold on! hold on, Master Phil!” he shouted. 
“Shut your eyes and hold on for ten minutes. 
There’s plenty of foothold there; and if you’ll just 
keep quiet and not look up or down, we’ll do some- 
thing for you directly.” 

And then, calling the others to follow, he com- 
menced climbing the cliff path with the agility of 
a goat. 

Bertie was not much behind, and Queenie, to 
whom terror lent wings, arrived closely in their 
wake. In a basket left up at the top of the cliff was 
a coil of rope of very fair strength. 

David had brought it in case it might be needed, 
and it was well indeed that he had done so. In a 
few words he explained his plan. 

“ It’s no good Master Phil trying to catch the rope 
if we let it down to him. He’s much too giddy for 
one thing, and for another the edge overhangs a bit 
here, and he never could reach it if he hadn’t all his 
wits about him. I’m going to tie it round my waist 


THE ROCKY BAY. 


289 


and clamber down to him. It’s not easy to get 
down from the top, but it can be done with a rope 
round one pretty safely. When I get to him I’ll put 
the rope on him and you’ll draw him up between 
you; he’ll climb too, of course, but the rope will 
help him and keep him safe. Then you’ll let it 
down for me, and make it swing backwards and for- 
wards till I can reach it. I shan’t be giddy, I’ll get 
it right enough, and the three of you can help me 
up, I know, and we’ll all be all right then.” 

David had spoken with a rapidity and energy 
quite foreign to his ordinary nature, whilst the 
pressure of excitement and responsibility was upon 
him ; and as he spoke he was unwinding the rope 
and making a slip knot at one end ; but before 
he had tied it round himself Bertie had stopped 
him. 

“ David,” he said, with a little touch of authority 
in his tone, not usual with the gentle little boy to- 
wards one who was his companion and friend as 
well as his servant, “you must let me go down to 
Phil with the rope. I do not think Queenie and I 
could pull him up by ourselves if he cannot help 
himself much, and I do not think anybody but you 
could swing the rope for the other one to catch by 


2 90 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


and by. I can climb very well, and I am not giddy. 
You must let me go.” 

For a few minutes there was a sort of argument 
between the two boys : David reluctant to let Bertie 
endanger himself ever so little, Bertie quite con- 
vinced that the only way of securing the safety of 
all was in his plan. Queenie took no part in the 
talk, only standing by with clasped hands and dilated 
eyes, wishing, even at this moment when she had 
so much else upon her mind, that she had never 
called Bertie a coward, for was he not going to risk 
his own safety to secure that of Phil? 

Bertie’s counsel prevailed. Indeed, it was evi- 
dently sound, and his quiet determination carried 
the day. 

“ I am not going after sea-gulls’ eggs,” he said to 
himself, as he commenced his perilous descent. “I 
know the Squire would let me go to try and save 
Phil.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


THE MOTHER. 

HILST the children away in the Rocky 
Bay were in the midst of their perilous 
enterprise, the Squire was sitting alone 
in his library, quietly engrossed in his 
books and papers. 

Visitors so very rarely disturbed him, visitors were 
almost unknown at the Manor House, and therefore 
it was with a good deal of surprise that he heard 
that Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot were in the drawing- 
room, anxious to speak to him at once. 

The Squire was much perplexed for a moment 
even to know who these people could be, but 
Pritchard, who observed his master’s surprise, added, 
respectfully, — 

“ Sir Walter’s brother, sir, — Mr. Frederick, as he 



DRIFTED ASHORE. 


292 

is often called, — and the lady from Australia whom 
he has lately married.” 

The Squire remembered all about it then, for of 
course he had heard from Bertie and from others of 
Uncle Fred’s marriage and of his purchase of the 
adjoining property. He had been pleased to hear 
of the change, for he had always liked the baronet’s 
brother ; but he had not even heard of his arrival at 
Arlingham, and he could not imagine what could 
have brought him and his wife so quickly to the 
Manor House. 

However, there they were, and he must go and 
see them, so he crossed over to the drawing-room 
without delay. Uncle Fred and his wife were stand- 
ing with their backs to the door, looking intently at 
a crayon head of Bertie, that the Squire had lately 
had taken by a clever young artist in the neighbor- 
hood. They both turned round quickly when their 
host entered, and he saw that the lady’s eyes were 
full of tears, and that they were soft dark eyes very 
like Bertie’s own. 

He greeted his guests courteously, and even in the 
first moments of introduction he was struck by the 
sweetness of the lady’s face. He almost fancied there 
was something familiar in the cast of the features, 


THE MOTHER. 


293 


but, however that might be, there was no doubt at 
all as to the charm of her voice and manner, — a 
charm which seemed to arise in part from the 
shadow of some settled sadness bravely borne, that 
had faded away in the sunshine of a present 
happiness. 

“ Squire,” said Uncle Fred (he may as well be called 
Uncle Fred to the end of the chapter, to avoid con- 
fusion), “we have brought you a piece of news that 
will astonish you greatly. I have had my suspicions 
for long, and my wife has been indulging hopes 
that the sight of that picture there has completely 
verified. The little waif you took in and befriended 
so well is the only child of my wife. We have lost 
no time in coming to tell you the news ; more 
especially as she could not rest one moment without 
seeing the boy, and thanking you in person for your 
great goodness to him.” 

The Squire sat perfectly still, not attempting a 
reply. He looked like a man who has received a 
blow, and requires time to recover from its effects. 
The lady’s tears were falling fast, and Uncle Fred 
had to continue his tale, as nobody else seemed 
able to speak. 

“You will ask what made me guess the secret: 


294 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


The first clue was the child’s likeness to his mother, 
whom I had known as a child and as a young girl. 
It attracted me to Bertie from the first, but I only 
looked upon it as an accidental circumstance, and 
paid no serious heed to the matter. When, however, 
some months ago, my wife and I met once again in 
a far-off land, when I learned that she had lost her 
only child, a boy of nine years of age, in a storm 
that wrecked the little sailing-vessel she had elected 
to cross in from Antwerp to Hull, at the very time 
that Bertie had been drifted ashore here, — when I 
heard this story, my suspicions were powerfully 
awakened, and all that I heard tended to increase 
my conviction. I learned that the child had divided 
his time between London and Normandy, that he 
had a grandfather, in whose library he continually 
sat, learning lessons and turning over books. What 
I heard of his disposition and habits coincided 
entirely with Bertie’s ways; and the story of the 
wreck seemed to make assurance doubly sure. I 
heard how the water came suddenly pouring into 
the cabin where the child lay, how she had only 
time to wrap a rough pilot coat over his little night- 
dress and tie a life-belt about him, whilst she bade 
him be brave and try to say always, ‘Thy will be 


THE MOTHER. 295 

done.’ The child had told me almost as much him- 
self in one of his moments of partial remembrance, 
and I knew how he had been drifted ashore just in 
these garments her child wore. The sea had over- 
whelmed them all, almost as soon as they reached 
the deck. My wife and two seamen were picked up 
by a steamer bound for Holland, and when she did 
return to England, no tidings reached her of the 
child, and from that day till a month or two ago 
she entertained no doubts of his death. My story 
gave her hope, and the sight of that picture has put 
away the last doubt. That is her little Ronald, the 
child who has been dead and is alive again, has been 
lost and is found.” 

Uncle Fred’s own voice quivered a little as he 
concluded his tale, and his wife commanded hers 
with difficulty. 

“Where is my boy?” she asked. 

“He is out with your little nephew and niece, Mrs. 
Arbuthnot,” answered the Squire; “but he will be 
home again in the course of an hour or two. You 
will wait and see him of course. You will let my 
housekeeper bring you some tea.” 

The Squire spoke with some constraint of manner. 
It was easy to see that he was a good deal moved. 


296 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


The mother seemed to divine his feelings by the 
very depth of her own. He had risen whilst the 
tale had been told, and was now standing with his 
back towards them, looking out upon the sunny 
garden, with eyes that saw nothing of its brightness. 
He started when a soft touch was laid upon 'his arm. 
He was confronted by a sweet face, tremulous with 
tears. 

“ I have not thanked you yet for all your good- 
ness to my boy.” 

“No need, I assure you, my dear madam; he has 
done a hundredfold more for me than I have done 
for him.” 

The tone was hoarse, and the words a little 
abrupt ; but the mother looked beneath the surface. 

“ Does that mean that you would miss the child 
if I were to take him away from you ?” 

The Squire started at the question, and looked 
keenly into the face before him. He forgot that the 
situation so very new to him had been faced in all 
its bearings for many long weeks by the two who 
had pierced together the history of the lost child, 
and who knew well the sad story of the Squire’s 
lonely lot. 

“Miss him!” he ejaculated, almost harshly, as a 


THE MOTHER. 


297 


strong man often does when under the influence of 
some sudden emotion. “ If you had known what it 
was to loose five children and a wife within ten short 
days, to live fifteen long years alone and desolate, 
and then to adopt and make your own a child that 
seemed given to you by a special providence, one 
whom you had the right to make your own and love 
as your own. If your old age had been cheered by 
the presence of such a child, and then he too was 
taken from you' — 

The Squire stopped short abruptly, and then in 
a gentler tone he added, — 

“ Forgive me, my dear madam ; I have no right 
to say all this. I have been taken by surprise, and 
I live so much alone, that I fear I forget myself at 
times. You must bear with an old man whom you 
have taken unawares. I cannot rejoice at your news 
for my own sake, but I will endeavor to do so for 
yours and the child’s. I will not be more selfish 
than nature and habit made me.” 

Mrs. Arbuthnot endeavored to speak, but her 
voice failed her, and she looked towards her 
husband. 

“ Squire,” said the young man, stepping forward, 
“my wife wishes me to explain to you that her 


298 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


gratitude would be but ill-displayed were she, in 
return for all your great goodness to her child, to 
bring a cloud upon your later life. But for you, no 
one can say what might by this time have befallen the 
little waif; but for you, it would hardly have been 
possible that mother and son could ever have met 
again this side of the grave. Your goodness in 
adopting him and in giving him a home has been, 
under God’s guiding, the means of bringing them 
together — the main link in the chain of circum- 
stances that has led to this goal. You have been a 
father to him in his hour of extremest need. My 
wife will never be willing to requite such goodness 
by robbing you of what sunshine the child’s love 
can bring.” 

The Squire looked steadily at the speaker, as if in 
doubt whither all this tended, and he glanced from 
one to the other, his face expressing more emotion 
than was its wont. 

“ I do not quite grasp your meaning,” he said. 

“ Our meaning is this,” said Uncle Fred, taking 
his wife’s hand and drawing it within his arm. “We 
both have known enough of loneliness and sorrow 
to be very unwilling to inflict it upon another. God 
in His great goodness has at length given us to one 


THE MOTHER. 


299 


another, and changed all that was dark in our lives 
into light and joy. We have each other, and our 
cup of happiness is very full. One more great mercy 
has been vouchsafed us — restoring to my wife the 
child she believed she had lost — giving it to her to 
see him living in peace and happiness in a home 
that was opened to him in his hour of sore need. 
Squire,” concluded the young man, earnestly and 
with great feeling, “the whole matter stands thus: 
if the child has grown dear to you, if he is a comfort 
to you in your declining years, if you love one an- 
other, as we are told, like father and son, and you 
would feel personal loss and grief at his departure, 
he shall remain with you still. We are very near 
neighbors now. The child can see his mother daily, 
hourly, and yet be your boy, and live beneath your 
roof. There shall be no mine or thine with regard 
to him ; if my wife^ is his mother, you at least have 
a claim to be called his father. We have one 
another, and our lives are bright; you are alone, 
and the boy has ch-eered you by his presence. So 
long as you need him, or wish for his companionship, 
we will not take him away. Our home is always 
open to him if ever you wish to be rid of your Self- 
imposed charge; but so long as you care to have 


300 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


him with you, we will never claim him or take him 
away. The only difference the child shall find will 
be that he has two homes instead of one.” 

The Squire listened to this speech in unbroken 
silence, and not a muscle of his still face moved the 
while ; but yet it softened in a wonderful way as the 
young man’s meaning became more and more clear, 
and the expression in the deep-set eyes now fixed 
upon her face touched Mrs. Arbuthnot to the quick. 

“Is this the expression of your thoughts, madam?” 
he asked, very gently. 

“Yes; my husband has only explained to you 
what has many times passed between us on the sub- 
ject. You know Dr. Lighton is his correspondent, 
and from him we have heard much of your great 
goodness to my little boy, and of the tie that seems 
to exist between you. My gratitude would be but 
ill-expressed were I to try and break that tie. The 
child had never known a father’s love until he found 
it in your home, for his father died when he was but 
an infant. Let him continue to feel that love about 
him, as well as that of the mother he has so strangely 
forgotten, and whom even now he may not be able 
to recall. Let us leave matters for the present as they 
now stand, and in the future be guided by the course 


THE MOTHER. 


301 


of events and by the development of the boy’s char- 
acter. If he disappoints you, his mother’s home 
will always be open to him. If he continues to 
occupy the place of a son to you, I will not take him 
away. He can be my boy as well as yours, and 
there shall be no jealousy between us.” 

The words were spoken quietly, yet with much 
feeling, and the Squire accepted the sacrifice in the 
spirit in which it was made. 

“Let the boy’s good be our chief concern, my dear 
madam,” he answered. “ My gratitude to you is very 
great, and shall be shown in care for the child over 
whose future you still allow me to exercise some con- 
trol. Believe me, your goodness shall not be abused. 
You will not find me exacting. If you will spare me 
as much of his society as you can, and let me love 
him as my own, I shall be satisfied and grateful, even 
though you may wish to change your mind by and by 
and receive him under your own roof.” 

The mother understood by instinct the nature of 
the man with whom she had to deal. She smiled 
very sweetly as she answered, — 

“I see very plainly that there will be no jealousy 
between us. For the present let all be as it is. If 
the child knows me for his mother, he shall still re- 


302 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


main with you, unless — ” She paused, and added, 
quickly, “And if not, and I have to tell him all, he 
is not likely to feel any wish to leave you for me. 
It will be very strange to be as a stranger to my little 
Ronald. I wonder — ” 

But the sentence was not concluded. There was a 
sudden stir in the hall without, and Dr. Lighton came 
in hurriedly. 

“What is it?” he asked, quickly. “Where is the 
child?” 

“What child?” 

“Bertie. Has he not come yet? They tell me 
there has been an accident on the cliffs.” 

Two faces blanched visibly at these words. The 
Squire took a quick step forward, and asked hastily, — 

“What do you mean?” 

“ I hardly know myself yet. Little Miss Arbuthnot 
came galloping up to my door ten minutes ago, to 
say that Bertie had had a fall on the cliffs and was 
being brought home in the pony cart. I came on at 
once — luckily I had not started on my round — I 
suppose I am here before them.” 

“Yes,” said the Squire, absently, and went out into 
the hall. 

Uncle Fred looked at the doctor and said, — 


THE MOTHER. 


303 


“I want to introduce you to my wife, Lighton. 
We have put the matter beyond all doubt. She is 
the boy’s mother.” 

It was no time for conventional greetings ; anxiety 
and fear filled all hearts. All the party followed the 
Squire into the hall, where Queenie Arbuthnot was 
now standing, her face very white, her whole frame 
trembling with nervous excitement. 

They questioned her closely. She was incoherent 
at first, but Mrs. Arbuthnot’s kind and motherly 
sweetness did much to restore her self-command, 
and they were able at length to elicit the following 
facts. 

Phil had got himself into danger, and Bertie had 
gone <down to him with the rope, as described in the 
last chapter. This errand had been successfully ac- 
complished, and Phil, by aid of the rope round his 
waist, had been able to climb up in safety to the top 
of the cliff. 

Bertie meantime had remained quietly upon the 
ledge, not at all giddy or afraid, waiting for the rope 
to be let down to him. 

David had not attempted to throw the end of the 
rope to him, as he was afraid of his getting giddy 
with attempts to catch at it, but had let it down its 


304 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


whole length and then swung it slowly backwards 
and forwards until it came within the boy’s grasp. 
When the right moment came, Bertie had seized it, 
and that successfully; but then happened a catas- 
trophe they had not reckoned upon. The weight of 
the swinging rope had jerked the child from his pre- 
carious foothold, and although his fall had not been 
unbroken, owing to his grasp upon the rope, yet he 
had slipped down very fast, and when the rope 
stopped he had fallen with some violence upon the 
sand and stones beneath. Those above could not 
judge how far he had fallen, but could see that he 
lay still and motionless as if stunned or hurt; and, 
whilst David and Phil hurried down to his assistance, 
Queenie ran off to the farmhouse to give the alarm, 
and then, with more forethought than might have 
been expected from her years, she had had her 
pony saddled and had ridden off to Dr. Lighton’s, 
so that he might be there as soon as Bertie arrived. 

It was impossible to gather from the little girl’s 
story what the amount of the injury was likely to be, 
but they were not kept long in suspense, for Phil 
came galloping up in a few minutes’s time, and, 
flinging himself off the pony, he rushed up to the 
Squire and cried, — 


The mother. 


305 


“He’s coming directly. Farmer Bayliss says he 
doesn’t think there’s much harm done, unless he’s 
broken his arm. He’s not dead, though he hasn’t 
opened his eyes yet, and he doesn’t seem much 
hurt.” 

The next moment the pony cart turned in at the 
gate. David was driving, and a burly, jovial-looking 
farmer was sitting beside him, holding Bertie very 
tenderly in his arms. 

“All right, I hope, Squire!” he called out, as 
soon as he saw the anxious group at the door. “ He 
opened his eyes just now and spoke ; but he seems 
dazed-like still, and not quite himself. I’m half 
afeared there’s a bone broke some-where ; but, con- 
sidering the distance he fell, we must thank God 
things are no worse.” 

He gave over his burden into the Squire’s arms, 
and Bertie was carried up-stairs and laid upon his 
own bed. Dr. Lighton and Mrs. Arbuthnot followed, 
and a look of keen interest was on the young doc- 
tor’s face as he noted that the child’s mother was 
beside him. 

Bertie was not entirely unconscious, but in a dazed 
state that made it an effort to open his eyes or to 
rouse himself to a sense of his surroundings. 


30 6 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Let him see you when he opens his eyes,” said 
Dr. Lighton to Mrs. Arbuthnot, and he signed to 
the Squire to keep in the background. 

Bertie heaved a sigh, like a child just awaking 
from sleep. The long eyelashes began to tremble 
upon the white cheek. 

Dr. Lighton himself drew back then to where he 
could not be seen. 

“Speak to him,” he said to the mother, in low 
tones. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot bent over her child. 

“Ronald?” she said; “my little Ronald!” 

The child’s eyes flashed open in an instant and 
fastened upon her face. A curious struggle seemed 
to go on within him. His great dilated eyes were 
full of an intense bewilderment and wonder. A sort 
of light seemed breaking in upon him, scattering 
shadows and dazzling him with its sudden vivid 
brightness. It was some seconds before he seemed 
able to speak, and then the word that passed his lips 
came almost like a cry, hoarse and choked, yet full 
of bewildered joy. 

“Mother! Mother!” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE NAME FOUND. 

HEN Bertie found himself clasped in 
his mother’s arms, and felt her warm 
tears upon his face, and heard her soft 
voice whispering tender, caressing 
words in his ear, he felt as if he had just awoke from 
a long bewildering dream, and such was the confusion 
of his mind that he clung to her more in terror than in 
joy ; and his agitation was promptly checked by Dr. 
Lighton, who administered a soothing draught, which 
sent the child off into a sound sleep long before he 
had unravelled the tangle of his own ideas. This 
gave other people time to consider what steps had 
better be taken for the preservation of needful repose 
of body and mind after the double shock. 

The child had been a good deal bruised and shaken 



308 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


by the fall, and his right arm was severely sprained, 
although not broken, as the good farmer had believed, 
Dr. Lighton attended to these injuries without rousing 
him from the torpid condition induced by opiates, 
and left with the injunction that he was to be kept 
perfectly quiet in a darkened room, and not encour- 
aged to talk, or to do anything, in fact, but sleep. 

And by a little dexterous management on the 
part of those about him, this health-restoring sleep 
was made to extend for more than four-and-twenty 
hours. When the child roused up, a little food was 
given to him by Mrs. Pritchard, nothing that could 
excite him was spoken, no face that might perplex 
him showed itself, and he dropped back into slumber 
almost at once. 

But upon the evening of the day following the 
accident, Bertie woke up, his mind quite clear, and 
his brain alive with all sorts of new ideas and im- 
pressions. Mrs. Pritchard was sitting at work beside 
him. 

“Where is papa?” he asked. 

The good woman looked up at the sound of his 
voice and approached the bedside. She saw that 
the little boy’s eyes were open and that he looked 
calm and collected. 


THE NAME FOUND. 309 

“The Squire is at his dinner; do you want to 
see him?” 

“Yes, please,” answered Bertie whose eyes were 
very bright and shone with a strange sort of exul- 
tation. “I have something very particular I want 
to tell him.” 

The message did not take long to deliver to the 
Squire, and in a very few moments he was standing 
at the child’s bedside. 

“Papa,” said Bertie, taking one of the strong 
man’s hands in his and holding it tightly, “I am 
going to be always your little Bertie ; but my real 
name is Ronald Darner, and my mother’s name is 
Winifred Darner, and we have a house in London, 
No. io Grantham Square. When grandpapa died 
we went away to France; but I think it is mother’s 
house still, and perhaps she is there now. If you 
w’rite, I am sure she will get the letter. Somebody 
there will know where she is.” 

Bertie (as we must go on calling him now) said 
all this very distinctly, holding fast by the Squire’s 
hand and gazing up at him with very bright eyes. 

“What has made you remember all this, my 
child?” was the quiet question. 

“It was a dream,” answered Bertie, promptly. 


3io 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“Mother came and kissed me and called me her 
little Ronald, and then I remembered. Please do 
you think she could come soon if you telegraphed to 
her? She is such a dear, sweet mother, and she 
thinks she has no little boy left now.” 

He seemed inclined to grow excited again. The 
Squire laid a firm, cool hand upon his hot brow. 

“You must keep still and be patient, Bertie, and I 
will do what I can to bring your mother to you. 
Will you promise me to be very quiet and good 
whilst I go and see what I can do?” 

Bertie folded his hands together with an air of 
quiet determination. 

“ I will try to be good, papa,” he answered, with a 
confiding smile. Come back very soon and tell me 
what you have done.” 

The child lay back on his pillows after the Squire 
had gone, and kept his promise literally so far as his 
body was concerned, but his mind could not be con- 
trolled in the same fashion. Strange thoughts and 
memories were chasing each other through his brain 
in so bewildering a phantasmagoria, that at last he 
could only press his hand over his eyes, as if to shut 
out the images that crowded themselves before his 
mental vision, and wait with a beating heart and a 


THE NAME FOUND. 


3 1 1 

sense of expectancy that he could not in the least 
have explained for something, he knew not what, 
that he was certain was about to happen. 

He heard steps approaching the door, the firm 
footfall of the Squire, and another tread much more 
light, accompanied by the rustle of a dress — but the 
sort of rustle that no garments Mrs. Pritchard ever 
wore could possible make. 

Bertie’s heart beat faster and faster ; there was a 
strange singing in his ears, as if water were surging 
round him. He pressed his hand more tightly over 
his eyes. It almost seemed as if he were afraid to 
look up, or to see who was approaching, and yet in 
his heart of hearts he knew. 

“Ronald !” said a very sweet and gentle voice. 

And then all the clouds seemed suddenly to roll 
away and the confusion to melt away like summer 
snow. The child looked up with a glad, sweet smile 
and said, — 

“ Mother dear, you have come at last. I knew you 
must be coming.” 

The mother bent and kissed her child, as she had 
done so many times whilst he had lain asleep. He 
seemed to know it now. 

“You used to kiss me like that in my dreams,” he 


312 DRIFTED ASHORE. 

said. “ I did not want to wake because the dreams 
were so nice.” 

The Squire was about to withdraw and leave them 
together, but Bertie saw the movement, and noted, 
too, the expression on the face he loved so well. 

“Papa,” he said, holding out his hand, — “papa, 
don’t go, please. We both want you. Nothing is 
quite right without you now; and I know mother 
will always let me be your little boy too.” 

“Mother,” said Bertie, later on, in one of those 
little confidences that they held from time to time 
during the days of his convalescence, “I’ve learned 
now what you used to tell me so often — about God’s 
taking care of us always. I used not to care about 
it much till I lost you and was so lonely. I thought 
He’d forgotten me then; but I’m sure now He 
hadn’t. He didn’t forget you either, did He, mother 
dear?” 

“No indeed,” answered Mrs. Arbuthnot, gently. 
“ He has been very, very good to me. Once He 
seemed to take away all that made my life glad ; but 
He has restored it all fourfold now.” 

Bertie’s face expressed a vivid interest and ani- 
mation. 

“ I think He’s always very good to people when 


THE NAME FOUND. 


313 


they’re lonely. You see He gave me to the Squire 
when I had nobody to love, and it was like having a 
home of my own then, and a father too. And when 
you had nobody He sent Uncle Fred to you. You 
are quite happy now, aren’t you, mother dear?” 

“Yes, my little boy, I am very happy indeed.” 

Bertie got fast hold of her hand and held it very 
tight. His eyes were fixed very intently on her face. 

“Mother,” he said, “you are going to live quite 
close to the Squire now, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, dear; we are living there already, and very 
soon we shall have the house quite to ourselves.” 

“And where shall I live then? here or in Uncle 
Fred’s house?” 

Mrs. Arbuthnot had been expecting this question 
for some days, and was quite prepared to meet it. 

“You will have two homes then, my child. Which 
do you think you would like to spend most of your 
time in?” 

Bertie’s eyes sought her face with great intentness. 
He took the hand he held and carried it to his lips. 

“Mother dear,” he answered after a short silence, 
“you have Uncle Fred now, and the Squire has 
nobody but me. I shall see you every day. It 
will be almost the same, you know — •” 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


3H 

The child broke off suddenly, looking wistfully at 
his mother. 

“You know I love you just the same,” he said, 
simply; “but the Squire is so lonely, and he has 
been so very good to me. They have all died and 
left him alone, and he says I have been like one of 
them — the child of his old age — I don’t know how 
to go away and leave him.” 

Bertie’s lip quivered, and the tears stood in Mrs. 
Arbuthnot’s eyes, as she stooped to kiss him. 

“ My dear little boy,” she said, very tenderly, “ I 
think you and I both feel alike about this. I did 
not tell you what Uncle Fred and I have said, 
because I wanted to learn your own feelings first. 
We do not want you to do anything to darken the 
life of one who has been like a father to you when 
you were so sadly in need of love and care. My 
darling, we think that your place is still here with 
the Squire, if you are content to stay. We shall see 
you every day ; you will always be our little boy too. 
You will have two homes instead of one, and loving 
parents in both. But, as you say yourself, I have 
Uncle Fred to take care of me now, and be my com- 
panion always, whilst he has nobody but his little 
Bertie.” 


THE NAME FOUND. 315 

Bertie kissed his mother’s hand again, and looked 
at her with loving eyes. 

“You always understand, mother dear. Some day 
I will tell you all about things — about the Squire, I 
mean, and how they all died, — Tom and Charley, 
and Mary and Violet, and even little Donald, — and 
then you will understand better still. But please may 
I see him now? I think he has been looking rather 
sad these last few days. He has not talked to me 
quite in the same way, quite as if I belonged to him 
now. I should like to see him and tell him what we 
have arranged. Please may I see him all by myself?” 

Bertie’s quick instincts had not deceived him. 
These last few days had been rather sad ones for the 
good Squire. He had been trying to resign him- 
self to the loss of the child, feeling that it would be 
ungenerous to take advantage of the mother’s con- 
cession, made in a moment of deep emotion, and 
being of opinion that the child would himself be 
unwilling to remain beneath his roof when the 
mother he evidently so truly loved had a home to 
offer him herself. 

Trouble had so far weighed upon the Squire’s 
mind, that he was inclined to expect more, and to 
prepare himself for adverse fortune. It seemed more 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


316 

natural to him now to lose than to gain, and he had 
no real hope of keeping the child beneath his *own 
roof much longer. Some compromise might possibly 
be made for the present ; but his sense of ownership, 
of fatherhood, would be gone, and the sense of 
warmth and light that had slowly crept into his 
lonely life would be as slowly extinguished. 

When he came and stood beside Bertie’s couch, — 
the child was up and dressed for the first time to- 
day, — his face showed some faint reflection of the 
trouble of his mind, and Bertie’s quick eyes detected 
it instantly. 

The little boy got up and pushed him gently 
towards Mrs. Pritchard’s great easy chair that stood 
beside the fire. It was May, but the cold east winds 
were blowing, and made fires very pleasant com- 
panions, especially when the light began to wane in 
the sky and the dusk crept into the corners of the 
room, as it was doing now. 

“You are better to-day, Bertie,” said the Squire, 
kindly. “Rather shaky on your legs still, eh?” 

“A little,” answered Bertie, laughing. “I feel 
rather funny when I walk; and my arm is very stiff. 
Take me on your knee, please, papa; I want to 
talk to you.” 


THE NAME FOUND. 


317 


The Squire lifted him up, and Bertie nestled 
down comfortably in his accustomed resting-place, 
drawing a long breath of satisfaction. 

“That is just nice !” he said. 

“What is nice?” 

“Why, to know that I shall be your little boy 
always now, and that nobody can ever want to take 
me away so long as you want me.” 

The Squire held the child a little more closely in 
his arms, but his voice was quite steady as he said, — 

“What makes you speak so, Bertie?” 

“I have been talking to mother,” answered the 
little boy. “We have arranged it all. I am to go 
on living with you, — if you want me.” 

Bertie felt a sort of tremor run through the Squire’s 
strong frame, but his voice was as quiet and com- 
posed as ever. 

“But what do you say yourself, Bertie? You 
have found your mother now. Do you not wish to 
go to her? You love her very much, I can see. 
Would you not rather belong to her than stay here 
to be my little boy ?” 

Bertie raised his face a little, so that he could look 
at the Squire. His eyes were full of gravity and a 
certain fixity of purpose. 


3iS 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


“I want to stay with you,” he answered, slowly 
and steadily. “ I do love mother very, very much ; 
but I shall see her every day. She has Uncle Fred 
now; it is not quite as it used to be when she and 
I were alone together. She is not lonely now, she 
is very happy. I am going to be your little boy, 
and stay with you.” 

The Squire bent his head and touched the child’s 
forehead with his lips. 

“You are sure this is your own wish? — you will 
be content to stay with me?” 

“Oh yes,” answered Bertie, quickly; and then, 
stealing his uninjured arm about the Squire’s neck, 
he added, with the quaint simplicity that seemed to 
belong to him, “ I feel as if you and I just understood 
one another. I think we must have been meant for one 
another when I got washed up here and you adopted 
me. I don’t think anybody understands you as I do.” 

The Squire smiled at these words, yet a suspicious 
moisture stood upon his eyelashes, as he once more 
kissed the child in his quiet fashion. 

“Yes, my little boy, I think you and I understand 
one another ; and if God has given us to each other, 
we will try to show our gratitude to Him by loving 
Him more and more all our lives.” 


THE NAME FOUND. 


319 


“I should like that,” answered Bertie, reverently; 
“ because you know it was so kind of Him not to 
forget me that time when I was quite alone.” 

And so, without any more discussion, the matter 
was settled, and little Ronald Darner was known to 
be still the Squire’s adopted son, notwithstanding 
that his mother and her husband were living within 
a stone’s throw of the Manor House, and that the 
child was as much at home in one house as in the 
other. He was still called by the name the Squire 
had found for him when his own had been buried in 
oblivion, and it seemed as if he would be always 
Bertie to those who had known him when he had 
had no other. 

Queenie and Phil came to say good-bye before 
they left their home. 

They had been constant in their inquiries after 
their little friend and companion ; but Dr. Lighton 
had wished Bertie to be kept quiet for quite a long 
time, and they had not been allowed to see him. 

He had been a good deal shaken by his fall, and 
did not get strong as fast as some children would have 
done ; so that it was not until Sir Walter Arbuthnot 
and his family were just on the eve of departure that 
Bertie was allowed to see Queenie and Phil. 


320 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


Phil was as merry and gay as ever, although his 
bright face grew grave for a few minutes whilst he 
thanked Bertie in boyish fashion for having saved his 
life on the cliffs that day ; but Queenie was more 
quiet and less imperious in her speech than was at 
all usual, and Bertie, observing this, wondered what 
was the matter, and if she were sorry about going 
away. 

“It is not that exactly,” answered the little girl, 
when questioned. “I think it is because I have 
something on my mind.” 

“Have you? What sort of thing?” 

“Something I want to say, only it isn’t very easy,” 
and Queenie got rather red, for she was a proud little 
maiden, and found it rather hard to own herself in 
the wrong. “I called you a coward, Bertie; I think 
I called you so a great many times. I want to tell 
you I’m sorry. I know now that you were just as 
brave as Phil or any of the boys, and I want you to 
say you forgive me for being so cross.” 

Bertie was quite taken aback, and blushed as red 
as Queenie. 

“ Please don’t talk so. I was a coward about the 
boat; and I’ve forgotten all about the rest. You 
have always been very kind to me, Queenie. You 


the Name found. 321 

know you made friends with me when I had nobody 
else.” 

Queenie began to laugh now ; she had got a weight 
off her mind, and was her merry self again. 

“I was often very cross,” she said “I sometimes 
think I must have a very hasty temper. I do get so 
cross if I have to do what I don’t like. You don’t 
ever get cross, do you ?” 

“ I feel cross sometimes,” answered Bertie, truth- 
fully; “but you know, I like to do what the Squire 
tells me ; I like to keep his rules.” 

“ I know you do,” answered Queenie, quickly. 
“You are obedient. Nurse often tells me so; but I 
like doing as / like, not as other people say.” She 
sighed a little impatiently, and then added, half re- 
luctantly, “Sometimes I think I should like to be 
obedient too ; only it seems so tiresome.” 

“You would like it if you once began, said Bertie, 
quickly. “It’s nice to please people when \ve love 
them.” 

Queenie sighed*again. 

“I like pleasing Uncle Fred and Aunt Winifred ; 
they are very nice and kind. When I come to stay 
with them I shall try very hard to be good. Perhaps, 
if I find it answers, I’ll try always.” 


322 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


. “Do,” answered Bertie. “I think you will be hap- 
pier if you do.” 

“Phil has been more obedient since he went to 
school,” said Queenie, reflectively ; “and he is always 
happy. Perhaps I’ll try.” 

And then they bade Bertie an affectionate farewell, 
and made him promise to come very often to see 
them whenever they came to stay with Uncle Fred. 

And so there were changes in that little circle. 
Sir Walter Arbuthnot gave place to his brother, and 
a very close bond of union existed between the two 
households in the adjoining houses, the golden link 
that joined them together being no other than little 
Bertie, the child who had once been so lonely and 
homeless, without even a name to call his own. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

OUR years have come and gone, four 
very bright and happy years ; and the 
good people of Arlingham are wont to 
say that things have never gone so well 
with them, that times have never seemed so smooth 
and prosperous, since the Squire’s sweet lady and 
her children lived at the Manor House and made the 
place bright and homelike with their presence. 

Several minor changes have now taken place since 
Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot came to take possession of 
their house. Two little mites of children play now 
in the nurseries where Queenie once ruled supreme ; 
and Bertie is never tired of watching the gambols and 
the antics of his tiny brother and sister, and, as he 
recounts to the Squire every detail of their wonderful 



324 DRIFTED ASHORE. 

performances, it is quite evident that he considers 
them the most remarkable children that ever lived. 

When little Frank first began to try to ‘‘walk on 
his hind legs,” as the elder brother phrased it, Bertie’s 
admiration knew no bounds ; and now that Winnie is 
beginning the same interesting process, his pride and 
delight in her is intense, and it is a pretty sight to see 
the boy out in the garden with the two little ones, 
carrying them about in his strong arms, and playing 
with them with a patience and good temper that never 
seems exhausted. 

Bertie is still the Squire’s boy, and has never 
wavered in his allegiance to his adopted father. He 
follows him about like his shadow, is his companion 
on his every expedition, and no father and son could 
ever have been more deeply attached than is this 
elderly man to the son of his adoption, who now 
wears his name and is acknowledged as his heir. 

Bertie is growing a tall, strong lad now, and has 
quite shaken off the childish delicacy that had given 
some anxiety at first. His open-air life has done 
wonders for him, and he is as active and agile as any 
of the boys who have in old days climbed the trees 
he climbs now, or jumped the hedges and ditches that 
intersect the fields round his home. 


CONCLUSION. 


325 


Yet with all this new strength and health, Bertie 
has never lost the reflective and thoughtful cast of 
mind that characterized him as a child, and his 
manner is always quiet and gentle, and marked, 
when he and the Squire are alone together, with a 
peculiar affection and respect. 

The tie that binds those two together is very close 
and strong. It would be hard, perhaps, to define its 
nature ; but it had bound together two lonely hearts 
in the days when each had been so desolate and 
isolated ; and as time passed on, and they grew 
more and more to each other, the cord of love 
seemed to wind more closely and firmly about each 
heart. 

And Bertie’s mother rejoices to see that it is so. 
No jealousy has power to disturb her sweet and noble 
nature ; nor, indeed, has she any cause to cherish it, 
for her boy is loyal and true and loving towards her 
always, and she knows by sweet experience that one 
great love does not cast out another, but rather in- 
creases the capacity for loving within the heart that 
holds the two. 

Bertie is her boy, too, as well as the Squire’s ; and 
when love is the law of households there is no clash- 
ing of interests and no divided duty. The Squire 


326 DRIFTED ASHORE. 

walks into Uncle Fred’s study as freely as if it were 
his own, or puts his head into Mrs. Arbuthnot’s 
morning-room to nod “ Good-morning,” or strays up 
into the nursery to play with the babies, just as if 
the house were his own ; whilst Bertie’s mother is 
as much at home in the Manor House as in her own 
domain, and is Mrs. Pritchard’s general referee for 
any little matter about which she feels any doubt. 

If the Squire grew old in a single week of his life 
now nearly twenty years ago, it has certainly seemed 
to the good people of Arlingham that he has grown 
younger and more hale and hearty during the later 
portion of that time. 

“ He’s been a new man since Master Bertie came,” 
is a common saying in the village ; and certainly 
they ought to know, since he has been born and 
grown old amongst them. 

Certainly the grey-headed yet upright and vigo- 
rous man so often to be seen riding through the 
village with his son at his side, visiting those houses 
he once thought never to enter again, and playing 
in the garden with Mrs. Arbuthnot’s pretty curly- 
headed babies, is strangely different from the heavy- 
browed, bowed-down Squire of five years ago ; and 
the many tenants and servants who have loved him 


CONCLUSION. 


327 


and served him for so many years rejoice at the 
change in one who has always been to them a true 
friend as well as a just and watchful master. 

David has been promoted to the post of the 
“young Squire’s groom.” For Bertie is often called 
that now, and accepts a position he understands the 
Squire wishes him to occupy with the ready willing- 
ness and obedience that has charactized his conduct 
throughout. David may be his groom, but he is 
also his friend ; for Bertie is tenacious of first im- 
pressions, and never forgets that he owes to David 
the first gleam of real happiness that seemed to gild 
his once lonely lot. 

Bertie has quite a circle of friends now, and he 
studies regularly with his pastor, who takes pupils 

from several of the houses round about; but he is 

* 

still quite as fond of a quiet chat with David by the 
sea-shore, where they talk over old times together, 
and lay plans for the future. A good many boyish 
yet very earnest resolves are exchanged between 
those two at such times, and they both find it help- 
ful to talk together of their faults and failures as well 
as of their aspirations and hopes. They do not 
kneel down at the turn of the tide to ask God’s 
special blessing, or to call themselves to His remem- 


328 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


brance, for they know well now that He is always 
watching over them, and that to Him all times and 
seasons are alike ; yet they often think of those days 
when they were struggling out of the darkness into 
the light, and I think nothing would ever make either 
of these two lads ashamed to say his prayers. 

Queenie and Phil came every year to spend a 
pleasant visit with Uncle Fred and Aunt Winifred ; 
and the little girl often remains for many weeks after 
her brother returns to school ; for there is something 
in the atmosphere of her aunt’s house which, as she 
expresses it, “does her good,” and she is always very 
reluctant to leave. 

She and Bertie are great friends, even if they are 

a little less outspoken than in old days. Now and 

then she tells him, in moments of unusual confidence, 
<» 

that she is trying to be more obedient, and does not 
find it quite so tiresome as she expected. She has 
learned, too, to believe in Bertie’s courage and high 
principles, and she has a warm and increasing admir- 
ation for him, and ranks him in her heart as her 
favorite next to Phil, and in some ways more of a 
hero, for Phil’s unbounded flow of spirits hinders 
him from posing in any way that could well be called 
heroic. 


CONCLUSION. 


329 


I think it will be easy for anybody to believe that 
Bertie’s life is a very happy one. Of course he has 
his little trials and troubles and ups and downs, as 
we all have, and without which we should be sadly 
disposed to get careless and puffed up. He does not 
expect to be exempt from these, and he tries to bear 
them bravely and cheerfully. He is very grateful 
and happy in his life, and thinks that he is the most 
fortunate boy in the world. 

But, in spite of all this happiness, he has his mo- 
ments of sadness, moments when there comes over 
him a sense that all things here, fade and change, and 
that life will not always flow for him quite in this 
smooth channel. Such thoughts come over him not 
unfrequently, and with no little significance. For 
Sunday by Sunday he now stands for a few solemn 
moments bareheaded by a quiet grave beneath the 
yew tree, where the Squire has stood every Sunday 
of his life ever since his dear ones lay below the sod ; 
and sometimes the lad will feel the pressure of a 
hand upon his shoulder, and will hear a familiar 
voice say, dreamily, — 

“When I am lying with them, my boy, at rest 
after life’s long battle, you will not forget me, will 
you? — nor the traditions of the old place that will 


DRIFTED ASHORE. 


33 ? 

be yours after me? You will be a kind and a just 
master, and keep up the honor of the old name? 
You will not forget the widow. or the fatherless 
children, nor suffer the aged to want for daily bread ? 
You will do as those before you have done, and 
more if the way opens before you? You will try to 
be a credit to a name that I love and respect for the 
sake of those who have borne it before me ? When 
you are Squire of Arlingham, Bertie, you will try to 
be a good one? 

It is hard for Bertie to answer questions like these, yet 
he looks up, after a struggle with himself, and says, — 

“I will try, father, I will try my very best; but I 
cannot bear to think of it. It is so hard to think of 
being left alone again.” 

The Squire with his quiet smile points to the words 
upon the marble slab. 

“ My boy, when you lay me to rest beneath that 
stone, you must learn, as I too had to learn, to say 
from your heart of hearts, ‘Thy will be done.’” 

Bertie lifts his eyes, and although tears are in them 
their expression is resolute and brave. 

“I will try, father, I will try. I will think of you 
and your courage and resignation when you were left 
all alone.” 


CONCLUSION. 


331 


“Not quite alone, my boy, not quite alone,” an- 
swers the Squire, laying his hand upon the lad’s head 
in a sort of benediction. “We have both learned by 
personal experience that there is One who never 
leaves us quite alone. In the fatherly care of that 
One I can leave you when the time comes without 
one doubt or one fear. Only be strong and of a 
good courage — He will never fail thee nor forsake 
thee.” 











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